


Fingers In Your Mouth

by muking



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, Muke - Freeform, ashton owns a coffee shop, calum is an asshole, cigarette au, i forgot zach im sorry oh my god, luke is kind of a kitten, luke is sort of there, michael is sad and lost and confused, rian is friends with jalex, rian is pretty rich too, side cashton if you squint, they're all poor and sad, zayn is filthy rich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muking/pseuds/muking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What are you still doing awake?" Luke asks, nose still scrunched up, but eyes finally open halfway. He looks soft and rumpled, like a kitten or something. "You're not smoking, are you?" </p>
<p>"'Course not," Michael drops the cigarette from the window subtly and smiles.</p>
<p>or the one where Luke and Michael are poor and struggling, Calum is an asshole but a carbon copy of Michael, and Ashton has blue hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingers In Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Um. I don't know what I'm doing. I just wanted a smoking/cigarette au and it sort of maybe turned into Muke. Zayn is slightly sort of there for like three seconds. Um, the upstairs neighbors are absolutely Jalex and Gerard Way is the landlord. Don't look at me.
> 
> Title taken from the song Harlem by New Politics.

Its 2:30 in the morning, going on 2:31, and he's got a cigarette in between his lips. He'd opened the window when he came into the living room, then just sat on the ratty, red couch and made no move to blow the smoke outside like he should have been. He just lets it drift up to the ceiling, that's already stained heavy yellow by someone else's smoke. It was that way when he'd moved in, no matter how much anyone tells him otherwise.

He takes the cigarette between his thumb and first two fingers, blowing smoke in the general direction of the window. He turns his head towards the thin wall that the window's on, so he thinks that counts for something. The smoke files out of his mouth, then just drifts up to the ceiling again like he'd expected it to. His fingers play with the strings that are fraying off the arm off the couch he's leaning against.

It's an expensive habit, one that's starting to prohibit his ability to pay rent, not that the landlord notices. Sometimes Luke covers his half of the rent with the money from the fancy job in the city he's got, and no one even knows. Luke's probably the only reason they haven't been kicked out of this apartment yet, like the two before. Neither of those had yellow ceilings or paint peeling off the walls, though.

He tries, he really does, but no one's really jumping to hire a high school dropout with piercings and tattoos. His mother argues that he's fucked himself over the second he got the eyebrows piercing, and now he'll never amount to anything. He knows. It has yet to bother him.

(Luke has a lip piercing and a few arm tattoos, and even one on his thigh, but he still got a job that pays just enough to cover their rent and feed them. Luke's mother comes to visit and takes them both lunch at least once a month, but neither of them say anything about it. Sometimes he wishes he was Luke.)

He blows smoke up again, watches as it swirls in the air and soaks into the heavy, dropping, yellow, ceiling. He's spent too long watching the smoke from last time, and what's left of his cigarette is just a gray piece of ash. He flinches involuntarily and gets himself off the couch, watching the hole on the middle cushion that has stuffing falling out of it precariously. He limps to the window, stretching and cracking his knees as he goes, until he's leaving against the wall and tapping the ash off the end of the cigarette. It falls to the sidewalk below, probably gets stuck in some gum, and he stubs the rest of the cigarette out on the flaky window frame, right next to the other black marks.

Luke's door opens and he blinks slowly at the window, yawning a little and rubbing at his left eye with his knuckles. He sniffs the air and flinches a little, scrunching up his eyes and squeezing his eyes shut. His hair is flopping against his forehead limply, with no product in it and still a little wet from his shower a few hours ago. The shirt he's wearing isn't even his, but it's threadbare and full of holes, nearly see through, and it's falling off his left arm, exposing his bare shoulder and the junction of his neck. His boxers have little hamburgers printed on them and hang off his long, thin legs, and he's only wearing one dirty, white sock on his right foot.

"What are you still doing awake?" Luke asks, nose still scrunched up, but eyes finally open halfway. He looks soft and rumpled, like a kitten or something. "You're not smoking, are you?"

"'Course not," he drops the cigarette from the window subtly, and Luke gives him a terribly skeptical look, like he doesn't believe a thing he's saying. He has a perfect right not to, too. "I was just about to go to bed."

"Yeah?" Luke nods a little and yawns again, rubbing his dull nails down his face slowly, scratching at his cheekbone and eyebrow. He nods and Luke nearly falls asleep standing up, the sleeve of his shirt falling down on his shoulder even more. "Brush your teeth and come cuddle. And wash your mouth out."

"Yeah, alright," he nods and Luke trips on his way back to his bed. He grabs the doorframe to steady himself and sways his way back into his bedroom. He doesn't doubt that Luke's tripped over every single thing on the floor on his way, but it just makes him smile fondly and turn to shut the window. He locks it on place and brushes his teeth, spending extra time on washing hiss mouth out with water, then trips himself on the carpeting at Luke's bedroom door. Luke snorts from the bed, and pulls the blankets back so he can slip in.

"Night, Luke," he mutters, once he's got Luke tucked against his side with his arm wrapped around Luke's neck.

Luke hums in response and pushes his face further into the crook of his neck. "Night, Michael."

 

\----

 

The ceiling's replaced with a band of thick gray clouds and smog, but he blows the smoke up at it anyway. The buildings surrounding him are effortlessly tall and thin, stretching up at disappearing into the low hanging clouds. It reminds him of a cartoon, when the villain's castle is surrounded by puffy, dark purple clouds. The smoke blends into it's background and he looses it before it reaches the top of the window frame in front of him.

His reflection is staring at him with some sort of hatred and a same amount of arrogance. He tugs a hand through his pale white hair and digs in the pocket of his black suit pants that are actually Luke's. His phone comes out, along with the black barbell that he leans forward, staring into the tinted windows, to put back through his eyebrow. He rolls the sleeves of his (Luke's) blue dress shirt up to his elbows, not really caring that anyone could see the tattoos underneath, and tugs at the black tie around his neck. It loosens it's grip around his throat and he let's out a huff.

There's a few people walking around, all dressed smartly and talking smartly and nodding smartly at each other. Too many suits are running around him and too many briefcases are creaking from silver handles and too many moderate heels are clicking against the pavement. A woman with a blue dress shirt and black pants shoulders past him, then looks up at him with dark eyes like it's his fault. He flinches back and tries a smile, but she's flicking her hair back over her shoulder and continuing on.

He grabs the pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and shakes one into his hand, shoving the rest back into the package. Just as he's about to put it back, the door of the tall, professional building flies open next to him. A guy comes out, all dark features and slightly crooked nose, and hands buried deep into the pockets of his own black pants. He pulls one out and pats his breast pocket, then the rest of his pockets accordingly.

They lock eyes and the guy looks at the pack of cigarettes hopefully. "Mind if I bum one?"

"Sure," he flips the top up and shakes another one out into the guys fingers, digging onto his pocket at the same time for his lighter. It's red and the fluids nearly gone, so it takes a few flicks to get the flame up. He lights his own first, then shuffles a step forward to light the guy's from between his lips and fingers.

They're both quiet for a while, and he shoves both the lighter and the pack into his pockets again, then readjusts the black barbell in his eyebrow. He send a quick glance at the other guy and finds he's got two sleeves of tattoos, too, and a few peeking out of his gray, half buttoned, collared shirt. He's got a ring in both his ears, as well, and his hair in a somewhat styled quiff. Part of it is up and the other part is flopping against his forehead limply.

"'M Zayn," he says finally, after blowing smoke up towards the clouds twice.

"Michael," he nods shortly and taps his own cigarette twice to flick the ash off. He steps on it absentmindedly with the toe of his (Luke's) too shiny black shoes.

"What are you doing in the bad part of town, Michael?" Zayn asks. Michael hasn't looked at him again, but he can hear the sarcasm in his tone. Zayn's got quite a nice voice and accent, and Michael sort of wants to sit down and listen to his entire life story.

"Looking for a job so my roommate can stop paying my half of the rent," Michael says bluntly, and Zayn snorts humorlessly, mumbling out a, "yeah?" They're both quiet some more, while Zayn digs into his pocket for a second, and Michael blows more smoke up. He tilts his head back, exposing his long neck for anyone to see, so he can watch it get lost in the clouds and slight fog that's growing around them. The streets and buildings and moderate people are hazy and blurring, but he can't tell if it's his vision or the weather.

"Here, Michael," Zayn hands his a pen finally and holds out the back of his palm expectantly. "Gimmie your number, I'll have my secretary call you, yeah?" Zayn's got beautiful eyes and eyelashes and soft skin around them, and Michael sort of hates him for all of three seconds. He doesn't want done pity job, or whatever this is, in turn for a cigarette, but then he remembers Luke at home with his hands tied in his hair and their financial statement in front of him on their fold out table. Yeah. He does want a pity job in return for a cigarette.

He drops the cigarette and stubs it out with the toe of his too shiny shoes, then grabs the pen from Zayn's long fingers. Zayn has a tattoo of something like a flower on the back of his wrist and across the top of his hand, so he scribbles his number around it, barely holding Zayn's hand up with his own fingers. They seem short and inadequate next to Zayn's. Everything about him seems ugly and useless, if he even attempts to compare himself to Zayn. Once he thinks the ink's soaked into Zayn's skin, he clicks the button on the back off the too shiny pen and hands it back, dropping Zayn's hand quickly.

"Secretary?" He swallows thickly and reaches up to unbutton the first button of his dress shirt before he sweats through it. Zayn nods and takes one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it down to the ground. He holds the smoke for two beats longer than Michael would have, while stepping on what's left of it, then finally let's it out. He looks up at Michael (he's shorter by at least three centimeters, but Michael still feels smaller next to him), and nods again, like he forgot that he already had.

"Own the place, don't I?" Zayn mutters, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his dressy pants. He shakes his arms out twice, then nods again. "I'll be seeing you around then, Michael. Keep the piercings, yeah?"

 

°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°

 

He's got four packs of cigarettes on their brown fold up table when Luke gets home. Their laid out in a beat rectangle, covering up one of the tears in the plastic tabletop, and Luke takes one look at them and stops. He's got on the black coat that reaches down to his knees, the one that isn't even his, and it's not buttoned up, but his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. There's a scarf around his neck, under the jacket, with a few rips and holes, and the dark blue color has faded over the years.

Luke's lips drop open a little, and he stops as soon as he's turned around from shutting the door. "Michael, I thought you were quitting?"

"Yeah, yeah," Michael says absentmindedly, pushing the two bottom packs a little. They shift and knock together, making the two above them shift and knock, as well. Luke opens his mouth again, but his eyebrows are pulled together now, and his looks more angry than anything. "Luke, I got a job." Michael beats him to it.

Luke's mouth closes again, and his eyes flicker between the cigarettes and Michael two or three times before staying on Michael. Michael knows he's an in old, oversized sweater and ripped black jeans. They're not job getting clothes. "You what?" Luke says finally.

"It's not-" he cuts off and shoves the chair back as he stands, sliding out to the side of the table quickly. He feels uncomfortable talking to Luke over four packs of cigarettes, and he doesn't even know why. "It's not much, but it's something? I'm, like, an assistant. Or some shit." Zayn's secretary had called two days after they'd met, and offered him a job as her assistant. An assistant to a secretary. He can't find it in him to care. "It pays minimum wage, but I figure if you pay the rent, I can buy the groceries or anything else we need." He sees Luke's eyebrows raise from confused to skeptical and quickly rephrases himself. "Or we can split them both again, go half and half like we did before." 

Luke doesn't say anything for a full minute. He just stares at Michael with his eyebrows pulled down together again (Michael can't read why this time, though), and his lips set into a thin line. He looks too long in the jacket that's brushing above his knees (it had come down to below Michael's when he'd had it), and his pants are too tight and Michael knows there's a badly sewn hole, done by himself, on the inside of the right thigh. Luke unwinds the scarf from his neck quickly and drops it to the floor, then trips forward. Michael catches him by the elbows and stands him upright again, but Luke's hugging him anyway, bending down to bury his face into Michael's neck. His nose is cold and red, but Michael doesn't mind.

"That's the best thing I've heard all day," Luke says softly, voice muffled. He huffs out a soft laugh and Michael smiles a little. "But I still don't understand why all the cigarettes." Michael full on grins now, and relays the whole story back to Luke, and Luke never moves his face or loosens his arms from around Michael's shoulders. Michael doesn't mind, because he doesn't move his hands from Luke's waist either.

 

\----

 

He doesn't keep the piercings in. Well, for the first day he doesn't. The barbell is left forgotten on the middle of his mattress, and the little rings are buried deep in his pockets. There's temporary black hair dye in his hair, because Luke didn't think the soft whitish lilac was too professional, so he's got black hair. He tries to joke about it matching his heart, but Luke just hums and shakes his head. He wears the white, long sleeved shirt and black tie the first day, along with the black pants and shoes. Everything's a bit too big, because they're Luke's, and he tries to pin the pant cuffs up so they don't get dirty.

But he walks in, a complete bundle of nerves, and Zayn meets him at the doorway in a black superman shirt and black jeans. His own tattoos are on full display (he does have a sleeve and a half), and he's got the silver rings in his ears, too. Zayn just hands him a coffee and smiles sideways when he sees the safety pins that aren't quite holding up the ends of his pants.

The secretary is a pretty black haired boy with nice lips and sharp eyes, but squishy cheeks. His name is Calum, and he looks exasperated and the day hasn't even started yet.

"Michael, yeah?" He asks before Michael's even got both feet off the elevator. Michael looks behind him like there's someone else named Michael getting off the elevator, then nods when he realizes Calum's talking to him.

Calum has a couple tattoos, not many, but there's some blonde streaks in his hair and a stud in his bottom lip. There's a blue ring in his nose, too, and he's constantly readjusting it and muttering about it getting infected, and it's just. That's a bit much for Michael. He was told he was going to be working in an office building (he realizes a beat late that he doesn't even know what the company is), and he was told to wear something sensible and look presentable. Granted, Luke told him as much, and Luke doesn't know what the company is either. But here's Calum, with tattoos and two piercings and a shredded Green Day shirt and ripped black jeans.

On his second day to work, Zayn doesn't greet him at the door, but Calum's got a coffee waiting on the corner of his desk. Michael doesn't even like coffee. He drinks the entire thing in five minutes. Zayn smokes in his office, and Calum smokes in the lobby, and the entire seventy fifth floor reeks of cigarettes and Michael sort of never wants to leave. Calum says it's because no one except the employees ever come up here, and all the meeting rooms are spread out on various floors. The smoke free floors. Michael's never been on the smoke free floors. He doesn't think he wants to, either.

He wears jeans and (Luke's) button up shirt on the second day, and Calum just smiles at him, like he's just waiting patiently for Michael to come out of his shell. He walks back to the apartment building after work and puts the barbell back into his eyebrow. Luke doesn't say anything about it.

Michael likes the fact that the ceiling in the office isn't stained yellow. It isn't drooping or sagging, either. He blows smoke up at the ceiling countless times in two days, and it stays flat, dull, and white. The soft blue paint isn't peeling off the walls, either, and his desk doesn't have any holes or rips. It's an incomplete circle, the desk, with Michael on one side, Calum on the other, and the printer and the entrance in between them. His chairs rolls on the hardwood floor, and nothing creaks.

On the third day, Michael tapes a tattered, old picture of Luke onto his side of the printer. Calum looks startled.

"Boyfriend?" He wheels his chair over and knocks the back against Michael's, craning his neck to see the picture better.

"Nah," Michael smiles fondly, feels stupid as he does so, and puts another piece of tape on the bottom edge of the picture. It keeps curling in on itself, and there's so many creases and folds on it, the picture is starting to fade and is hard to see. "'S just my roommate." Luke's only seventeen in the picture, and a complete mess of limps and hair. His legs and torso and arms seem endless, and he's grinning so wildly it looks like his face is going to crack in half.

"Just your roommate," Calum repeats, raising his eyebrows. "Mate, I've got a few pictures of my family, but. My roommate would be terrified if I tacked up a picture of him." Michael just smiles stupidly, he does that a lot when people talk about Luke, and spins on his chair to face Calum. Calum's shaking a cigarette out of the pack and flicking it at Michael before he can even respond. It hits his chest and he slaps his hand over the spot to keep it there. His fingers dig into his shirt as he tries to grab it without dropping it, and Calum throws him the lighter, too. He catches that, and lights the cigarette before handing it back. The flame on Calum's lighter flicks up right away, and Michael tries not to be jealous of a lighter, of all things.

"'S nice," Michael says fondly, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. He always tips his head back to watch the tendrils curl and twist all the way up to the white tiles. Calum doesn't even glance up from his paperwork or phone, most times.

"He's a bit young for you, though?" Calum leans over to peer at the picture again and Michael shrugs.

"He's 21, now," he explains, and glances around for the ashtray that Calum usually keeps on his side of the desk. "I'm only three years older than him. Not that big of a deal."

"24," Calum concludes, and Michael nods a little. "You're pretty old. Gonna hit your mid life crisis pretty soon." He nods like there's no choice and Michael is absolutely going to hit his midlife crisis, and he doesn't have a say in it. He just turns around and wheels back over to his desk, grabbing at the phone and punching the numbers with the cigarette pursed between his lips.

Michael turns back and folds down the edges of Luke's picture. He doesn't thumb across Luke's face for anything other than to keep the photo flat, and there's not a fond smile on his face. 

 

+++++

 

Michael gets an honest to god cake on the way home. He picks it up from the grocery store, along with those high class noodles that swirl and spiral and look like tiny, edible, pieces of art. He even gets a jar of sauce that will probably taste good with the noodles. He doesn't know, but he buys it anyway. He knows it's wrong, because he hasn't even gotten his first paycheck, but. He figures the fact that he's finally got Luke taped up in his office deserves some sort of celebration.

He makes dinner so that it's ready when Luke comes home and feels this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. That's what they are. They're Dinner Waiting On The Table For When You Get Home, Dear, people. They're Pictures Of Each Other On Their Desks At Work, people. They're domestic. He's domestic.

He puts the sauce on top of the noodles anyway and it does taste good. It tastes good enough that he throws more than half onto Luke's plate, because god knows Luke is thin as a twig and needs to eat. There hasn't been an overabundance of food in their fridge, and Michael knows for a fact that Luke steals breakfast from his break room at work and no one says anything. He has three cigarettes and coffee, himself.

Luke is making a terribly sad face, like a kicked puppy, when he gets in. He shuts the door behind him and leans on it bodily, pressing his forehead against the thin wood and clawing at it with his short nails. Michael doesn't want to say anything to, like, startle Luke or something, but his heart's suddenly in his stomach and he fucking hates it. He stands up from the table, and the scrape of the chair legs against the floor makes Luke jump anyway.

He whirls around and flicks his eyes to Michael, then to the table. The noodles are still hot and steaming a little. Neither of them says anything, and Michael feels like an idiot. Of course Luke doesn't want dinner right after he's gotten home. He's probably stressed from work and doesn't want to deal with Michael's shit. Of course this entire situation is too domestic, too coupley and Luke probably hates it. Luke probably doesn't even have Michael's picture on his desk at work. 

"Luke," he tries, because Michael is hopeless and likes to see how far he can push himself. Luke jumps a little again and looks up at Michael with wide eyes. He looks dull, empty, slightly confused. He's got the same jacket and scarf on as the other day, but with a blue dress shirt underneath this time. There's no pins holding up his pants and his shoulders are slumped just slightly.

"You-" Luke cuts off and looks at the table again. "You cooked."

"I cooked," Michael confirms. He figures that's an exaggeration of what he actually did, which was stirring the noodles and shaking the pan with the sauce in it. He doesn't say as much, just waits for Luke to do something, say something. Eventually, after a pause that seems to keep on for days and days on end, Luke falls into his chair and starts eating like it's the first time he's ever seen food. He stops long enough to grin up at Michael around noodles and its disgusting, but Michael still finds it endearing enough to sit back down and start eating, too.

"Are you okay?" He asks once Luke has finished, which, admittedly, hadn't taken long. Luke's eyeing the cake in the middle of the table and peeling the coat from his shoulders, but he glances up again when Michael speaks.

"You have no idea," he breathes out. He drops the scarf and coat on the ground, and Michael vaguely wonders if Luke has ever seen a hanger in his life. He never hangs up clothes, they're either on his floor or his bed, but never in the closet. Michael has no idea what Luke keeps in his closet, he's never even seen it opened.

"Yeah?" Michael asks. He's not even halfway done with his noodles. Luke hadn't even admired the shape that they were in, or the spiraling lines down the sides. Michael vaguely wonders if he even tasted it, of chewed, for that matter.

"I had the worst day," Luke swipes a bit of the chocolate frosting off the cake and sticks his finger in his mouth happily. "There was so much work, and someone spilled coffee on my pants and I had to sit in them all day, and- and, oh my god, is this a French vanilla cake with chocolate cream cheese frosting?" He glanced up and his eyes are filled with so much brightness, Michael wonders where he left his sunglasses. It's just, Luke looks so happy. Over a few fucking noodles.

"Yeah," Michael says again. He knows what kind of cakes Luke likes. He won't admit it, but he knows. Luke doesn't even bother with a knife or plate, he just reaches forward and stabs the cake with his fork, ripping away a piece and chewing on it happily. He's almost bouncing in his chair, now. Michael wonders where the fuck he even found Luke, or what the fuck made his entire soul change in a split second. Because it can't be because Michael made him some noodles.

"You're the best, oh my god," Luke groans. Michael can't tell if he's talking to him or the cake. He doesn't even care.

"Have you got a picture of me on your desk?" Michael blurts out. Luke looks up from the dork, which is halfway to his mouth again, and stares at him for a second and a half.

"Course, I've got three, I think," he shrugs, then pops the cake into his mouth and sighs happily again. "Why?"

"Just wondering," Michael ducks his head and continues with the curly noodles. He tells himself that his ears are burning because his face is so close to his bowl and not because of Luke. That's it, yeah.

 

\----

 

He doesn't know how it happens, but by the end of the week, he's in a bathroom stall and Calum's on his knees in front of him. He's got a cigarette that he's not even thinking of lighting anymore clutched tight in his left hand, and the other buried deep in Calum's hair. And Calum's making these ridiculous noises that should not be attractive at all, but he's still shaking and. And fuck, of course Calum fucking swallows.

He takes Calum home on Friday and fucks him slowly, just to watch the way he comes apart and squeezes his eyes shut like he's going to cry, but he never does. Calum tastes like cinnamon and smoke and something that's just a little sweet, and he bites and claws and, well. They make a blanket nest and don't leave until two hours later, when the front door closes softly. He's in the middle of biting Calum's thighs and watching the way he whines and groans and gasps frantically at any sort of contact.

He thinks Calum has a touching kink, because all he had to do is kiss across Calum's chest and bite his shoulder a little. Calum's weak and needy and they smoke afterwards, and he sort of, maybe loves it.

But he's starving and Calum's starving and the room is sort of thick with smoke that can't get out through the heavy yellow ceiling. Calum rolls out of bed and kisses him hard enough to bruise, then leaves with the blanket wrapped around his waist. He forgets about Luke. They both forget about Luke. Calum comes back in with a red face and ears and gestures in the general direction of the kitchen.

Calum crawls back into bed and ducks under the remaining blankets, and he goes to find Luke. Luke's sitting on the couch with his fingers tugging at the threads on the arm, and looks up when he hears the floorboards creak.

"Michael, who the fuck is that?" Luke asks calmly, but he's blushing high on his cheeks and Michael knows he's seen something he shouldn't have.

"That's- um," Michael waves his arm towards his bedroom, then rubs the back of his head with it. "That's Calum."

Luke looks confused for a second, then seems to place the name and pulls his eyebrows together. His face turns red with something that's not shy blushing this time, and he's got his steely eyes fixed on Michael's bare chest and neck. "The same Calum you fucking work for?" He manages to spit out. Michael blinks for a second, then realizes, yeah. Calum is sort of his boss. He'd thought of him more as a coworker, but Calum is his boss. He's fucked his boss.

"Fuck, if you lose this fucking job-" Luke cuts off and just threads his hands through his hair wildly. Michael knows what he's trying to say, he doesn't even have to finish the sentence. But he does, because he's Luke, and he looks like he might break his own arm if he doesn't. "We're so fucking screwed Michael. So. Fucking. Screwed." He pronounces each word carefully, like he's making sure Michael understands how dead he is if he fucks this up.

(At some part of the back of Michael's mind, he did know. He knew Calum was his boss and he knew he could absolutely get fired for this. He just didn't care, because he's self destructive, and Calum has nice lips, and, well. That's really all there is to it.)

"Yeah, Lukey, I know," he says softly and fuck, he doesn't know how to play this off as casual to Calum. He doesn't know how to do this. He's never really had a stable job like this before (he's only been working a week and he still considers it a stable job. He's so fucked.).

°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°

Calum doesn't leave until Saturday afternoon. Luke gets a good look at him then and blinks in confusion, then asks if those are his clothes from work yesterday. Calum's wearing dark red jeans and a ripped All Time Low shirt, with tattoos and piercings full on display. Luke looks concerned when he nods, even more so when he waves them off, already lighting a cigarette as he goes.

"I don't like him," Luke mutters after the door's closed and they can hear Calum walking away. "Michael, he has, like, three piercings and twelve million tattoos and he doesn't even hide them!" Luke looks horrified about it. Michael sits on the couch next to him and slings and arm around Luke's shoulder with a grin.

"You should see my boss," he says. Luke looks even more horrified.

Monday morning, Calum doesn't mention anything.

Tuesday afternoon, Luke shows up. He has the secretary in the main lobby tell him where to go, and scrunches his nose up before he even gets off the elevator. Michael frantically shoves the ash tray into his desk drawer, along with the pack of cigarettes and the yellow business card for a tattoo shop that Zayn had given him.

Calum rolls back until the back of his chair hits Michael's, and he jerks a little, then cranes his neck back even further. "You're so fucking whipped," he whispers. Michael turns just enough to shove Calum back over to his side of the desk. Luke's standing in front of him when he looks back, and he smiles as innocently as he can.

"Hiya," he says. Luke still has a disgusted look on his face, and he puts his hand over his nose when he thinks Calum isn't looking. He sets a bag on top of Michael's desk with the other hand, then shifts his hand enough for Michael to see that he's smiling.

"I brought you some lunch, if you're not busy," his voice is muffled by his jacket, but Michael can still understand him. He is busy, actually. He still has to call a few people about something, and there's a mountain of papers that he has to file before he can leave at three, but. Luke's picture is still the only one even remotely near his desk.

"Yeah, I'm not busy," he says, shoving a few of the papers in front of him out of the way so he can make room. Calum mutters something that sounds a lot like a whip noise behind him, which he graciously ignores, because he's not whipped. He's not whipped for Luke in any way. He hasn't even said it out loud and his stomach churns and his teeth hurt. Even they can tell he's lying. Luke drags over one of the chairs that's sitting in the corner and sits in front of Michael. He glances at the coffee cup on the side of his desk with raised eyebrows.

"Get a job in the big city and suddenly like coffee, huh?" He asks softly and Michael shrugs a little. He fucking hates coffee, still. It says "Michael the idiot" on the side, and he vaguely wonders how Calum got the coffee shop to write that, let alone call it out. If anything, Calum is the one that's whipped here, not Michael. Michael doesn't have to say anything in response, because the coffee is right next to the printer, and Luke flails one of his long arms over to fold down the edges of the picture, while Michael digs in the bag. It's McDonald's, and his heart flutters but his stomach drops at the same time.

"Can we-" he cuts off and looks back to make sure Calum isn't paying attention, then leans forward and lowers his voice. "Can we afford this? Or are you splurging?" Luke's eyes flicker away from the picture and he drops his arm on top of the desk and frowns.

"Well, I wanted to come see your office. Thingy," he whispers back. "It's a valid excuse. I was going to cook something like you did, but. You get home first. And I'm not allowed to boil water anymore, remember?" He smiles lopsidedly in an attempt to change the subject, and Michael frowns. He can't tell if that's a rib about how much money he spent on dinner the other night or not. He let's it go, but his head suddenly hurts and he doesn't even know why. By the time he manages to get enough courage to look back up at Luke, Luke's staring at something behind him.

Michael spins around and follows his eyes, and finds Calum starting back. He's got a cigarette in one hand and the phone in the other. "'M on hold," he mutters. Smoke comes out of his mouth as he speaks and Michael really, really has to refrain from screaming. Luke and Calum are in some sort of stare down, and he doesn't want to interrupt it, or anything. Luke might say something rude, and Calum might fire him, so. He let's them look at each other with absolutely no emotion on either end, and goes back to digging in the bag for food.

And it's really just his luck that the door to Zayn's office opens then. He's got on a white shirt, today (which is a first, they all usually tend to stick to black or gray or dark colors in general), and black jeans with the knees ripped out. Sometime over the past week, he went out and got a little stud in his nose that Michael hadn't noticed until then, and the little rings in his ears are dark green this time. Both his arms are on full display, as well as part of his chest, and Michael sighs heavily. He's shaking a pack of cigarettes, too.

"Cal, did you call the-" he starts, not even looking up from his phone.

"I'm literally on hold right now," Calum spins his chair to look at Zayn, and Luke sits up a little straighter. Zayn glances at the three of them, then smiles happily when he sees Luke. Michael doesn't think he's ever seen Zayn smile happily in the past week. Luke's staring at him with wide eyes, like he really can't believe Michael was right and Zayn's real and he really does have that many tattoos and doesn't even bother trying to hide them.

"Hey," Zayn says. "You must be Luke." Luke looks over at Michael curiously, and Michael scowls and turns back to his food. He doesn't talk about Luke that often. Not enough that Zayn would remember his name. A scarier thought is that Calum told him. Which makes him wonder what else Calum's been running his mouth about.

"Uh, yeah," Luke says. He looks like he would stand up if Zayn walked towards him, but Zayn seems content with rolling up the short sleeves of his shirt so they're against his shoulders. "You're- you must be-" Luke cuts off and Zayn looks up and smiles at him again, like he's waiting to see if Michael's even told Luke anything. He hasn't, is the thing. Luke works it out anyway. "Zayn, right?"

Zayn has about seventeen different smiles, and at least ten of them are sarcastic. So far, he hasn't used a single sarcastic one on Luke. Michael's going to call that a win. "That's me. Sorry, I have to get going, though. Got a meeting downstairs somewhere."

"Floor fifty three," Calum says without even moving the phone away from his mouth. "Room thirty two. Maybe put on that jacket thing, though, they're kind of one of those professional cunts." Zayn backtracks into his office and comes back out after a few seconds with a suit jacket on. He tugs at the sleeves and frowns, then holds out his arms for inspection. Calum shrugs. "That's as good as your going to get, so. I'd say you look fine."

Luke chokes on his fries. Zayn and Calum don't seem to even notice, and Michael just glances over to make sure he's not dying. Luke coughs a little and leans forward, making a stupid face in order to get the fries out of his windpipe. It doesn't seem to be working, so Michael digs in his desk drawer, coming up with a bottle of water that had been rolling around in it all weekend. He hands it over and Luke takes a long drink, coughs a few more times, and holds his throat like he's protecting it.

By the time Michael looks up again, Zayn's pressing the button for the elevator with his hand shoved up his sleeve, trying to fix the rolled up ones that are probably still at his shoulders. He always presses it seven or eight times, even though the elevator is probably only two floors below. He waves them off as he goes, and Calum flips him the middle finger in response.

As soon as the doors close behind him, Luke nearly lunges across the desk to grab Michaels shoulder. "He's- he's fucking- he's a Greek God!" His fingers are digging painfully into Michael's skin, but he just smiles and let's Luke rant for a few seconds. "I can't even tell what's better, his eyes or cheeks! Maybe his jaw? Or his legs?" Michael smiles a little and Luke let's go of his shoulder, shoving it back so that Michael hits the back of his chair.

"Yeah," he says simply, because it's true.

"Yeah," Calum mimics in a voice that's too high, but just slightly under his breath. By the time Michael turns to look at him, he's ducked his head down, pushing the phone furhter into his cheek, and hunched over the desk a little. His spine shifts under the fabric and his pen flies across the pad of paper in front of him. Michael figures he's done something wrong, but he can't tell what. And, judging by Luke's face when he turns around, Luke knows he's fucked up too.

Luke leans over the desk more and lowers his voice until Michael can barely hear him. "If you lose this fucking job, I swear to god. I'm fucking done." He sits back again and Michael stares at him, because done? Done, as in he's done paying Michael's half of the rent, or done as in he's done with Michael completely. Michael thinks he would rather live on the streets than have Luke drop out of his life.

Luke leaves a while later, and Calum doesn't talk to him until the end of the day when he's shoving him into a bathroom stall and gritting his teeth. 

 

\----

He's on the couch with an unlit cigarette. Luke, that is. Luke is staring at an unlit cigarette and not moving. His legs are bent too soon and he looks too long and thin, with the butt of his palm resting on his knee, the cigarette squished and bent between his thumb and two first fingers. His other hand is threaded in his hair, which looks too greasy and unwashed to be his own. Its flopping against his head limply, with no product.

"Luke?" he tries when Luke doesn't even look up at the sound of the door. Luke shouldn't even be home yet, its two hours too early. His stomach feels heavy in his tingling toes. "Luke, alright?" Luke doesn't look up, but he hums in response. His body shifts, too, so his back isn't stick straight anymore, and he's slouching over the cigarette.

"Gonna start smoking," Luke says simply. His voice sounded wrecked, but his nose isn't red and he hasn't coughed once like he usually does if he's sick.

"Aw, no, don't do that," he toes off his shoes finally and shrugs the too long coat off his shoulders. It's the only thing on the hook next to the door, and he almost trips on Luke's while he's walking over to the couch. He should be used to it by now, really. "Fuck, Luke, how many times have I told you to hang up your fucking-"

Luke cuts him off. "My pay got cut," he says. The cigarette drops from his fingers and settles into the stained carpet without bouncing like it should have. It's bent, about a third of the way from the top, sticking out sideways and not stick straight. Both of Luke's hands go to his head and thread through his greasy hair.

"What do you mean?" He asks softly. He forgets about the fucking coat and the fucking scarf that he trips over after getting past the coat. He stands in front of Luke, looking at his bowed head and waiting for Luke to elaborate.

"I mean," Luke doesn't even look up when he starts talking. His voice is scarily even, but he let's out a shaky breath at every pause in his words. "I was getting paid a bit more than minimum wage, but the company had to take some budget cuts, so they- they, I don't know, they cut my salary. Michael, I ran the numbers and it's not- this isn't going to work."

Michael's more pissed off than anything. He's pissed off at Luke's boss and Luke's job and Luke's coworkers and the government and budget cuts, and he thinks if he traces it back far enough, he can somehow pin this on Calum. It's definitely Calum's fault. He's pissed off at Calum, too. Fuck Calum. "What the fuck?" Is all he manages, because he's not exactly self sufficient and he's awful at putting his feelings into words. "What the fuck, can they do that?"

"It's not under minimum wage," Luke doesn't even bother to look up, and his hands are still buried deep into his hair. So far, Michael can't even see his fingers, though he feels that he ought to be able to, with how thin and clumped together it is. He figures he should ask about that, too.

"Still!" Michael's careful not to stomp his foot, but his voice is loud enough and Luke jumps anyway. He looks up just enough to meet Michael's eyes (he hears Calum making a whipped noise somewhere in the back of his mind as he does so, and remembers that Calum's a piece of shit).

Luke's got his cheeks pressed between the bottom of his palms, so the skin around his mouth is squishing and pulling tight. His lips are pursed and a little bent, but still somehow pressed into a thin line, and his eyebrows are in the middle of his forehead. His eyes are wide and look like stupid fucking swimming pools, or oceans, or something else poetic and dumb (Michael really fucking is not good with words, okay?). Luke just fucking looks at him, and he looks scared and sad and soft and. And fuck. Michael loves him so fucking much.

All the anger drains out of his body and his toes and fingers go cold. He crouches down in front of the couch and grabs Luke's knees to steady himself, ignoring the white hot flash in the back of his own knees as Luke's jeans are too tight around his legs. Luke doesn't look at him again, just squeezes his eyes shut and pulls his eyebrows back down into a look of sadness, and Michael thinks his heart might shrivel up even more if Luke's going to keep making that stupid face.

"We're going to be fine," he says carefully, because Luke sometimes does this thing where he acts all small and sad until Michael says something dumb, and then he's angry and yelling wildly. Michael still has a scar above his eyebrow and a broken plate to prove it, from when he dropped out of school. "Listen, I'll- I'll, I don't know, see if I can work overtime. Maybe Zayn can, like, hire you as my assistant. The assistant to the assistant's assistant."

Luke just stares at him, doesn't even crack a smile at that, but at least his eyes are open. It's not much better though, because they're bloodshot and red rimmed and watery. He sighs and tries again. "You can get another job? Or, no, don't do that. I'll get another job. I'll- that little tiny bookstore three blocks away is hiring, the little old lady that worked there finally died. You know, the one that was almost seven hundred years old and practiced black magic while customers were out?" Luke doesn't respond and he sighs heavily again. He pinches Luke's thighs and knees until Luke starts squirming and batting him away with the corners of his lips tilted up.

"You can't get another job," he says finally, once Michael's just holding his knees and smiling stupidly at him. Luke's cheeks are pink and there's a line from his bracelet across his jaw. "You're already working from eight to two."

"And you're working from seven to five, sometimes more," he points out. Luke's knees are bony and they kind of hurt his palm, the way he's squeezing them so tightly, but he doesn't stop. Luke doesn't ask him to, either, so he's not going to.

"Michael, you could barely find one job," Luke sounds exasperated and Michael huffs in response.

"I'll take the barbell out," he reasons. "I'll- I'll get one of those hard labor jobs, where they allow tattoos and shit. Luke, we're going to be okay."

"No, we're not," Luke stresses. He's so fucking stubborn, Michael hates him for a whole second and a half. He doesn't understand why Luke is so negative about everything, but then he remembers it's probably his fault. He's the one that wasn't raking in any money for a long time, and he's the one that smokes like a chimney, and he's the one that has more tattoos than he and Luke put together have appendages. He supposes he can indirectly trace all of that back to Calum. He fucking hates Calum.

"Luke," he groans and presses his forehead to Luke's knees, between his own hands. Luke goes to shove him off, but Michael just crawls onto the couch and sits in Luke's lap, dragging him into a hug with his arms around Luke's neck. Luke whines and wiggles in an ill fated attempt to get away, but Michael just hugs him tighter until Luke's pressing smiles into his neck and groaning.

He fucking loves Luke and it fucking sucks. 

 

❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇

 

 

The bookstore takes one look at his application and throws it out. He sees in through the store front window, watches as the middle aged woman that looks exactly like the dead old lady, wrinkles her nose, then tosses it. She doesn't think he's looking. He is. He wonders if Luke would have gotten it. Probably. Luke has charisma and a soft face and bright eyes.

He tries a coffee shop next, and a boy with bright blue hair smiles at him when he walks in. Maybe smiles isn't really the right weird, because his entire face lights up. The entire room lights up. The coffee shop is empty, but it is three in the afternoon. Bright yellow chairs are pushed against the red tables and everything is practically sparkling with cleanliness.

The boy has a wave to his hair, as well as several darker blue and purple highlights in the sky blue, and gauges in his ears. His nose is small and turned up a little, and his smile is the prettiest thing he's ever seen. He just stares at the boy for a second, standing stalk still in front of the door, because he's so pretty and happy. There's a tag to his brown shirt that reads "Ashley".

"Hiya!" Ashley full on grins. he snaps out of his trance and blinks dumbly for a few seconds. "What can I get you today?" His eyebrows must pull down in confusion, because Ashley giggles and points up at the menu above his head. His fingers are long, so long it's almost weird. But not quite.

"Oh!" He remembers he's in a coffee shop, the boy's probably waiting for him to order. He tries not to trip on his way over to the counter and smiles back at the boy. "Hopefully a job." He hands over his application and everything, and Ashley's smile drops completely.

"Ah, sorry," -his eyes flick up to the top of the page.- "Michael. We're not hiring right now, but we'll totally keep you in mind." He looks back up to Michael and smiles again, albeit a little sadder this time. He reaches under the counter and produces a small red folder, which he slips the application inside. He shoves it back in the spot under the counter top again and looks back up at Michael.

"Right," he frowns and runs a hand through his hair nervously. He glances at his toes to avoid meeting Ashley's eyes and pulls his lip into his mouth.

"Alright, listen," Ashley says. When Michael looks up again, he's rummaging around at the counter behind him, and Michael does not look at his butt. He doesn't, because it's nonexistent. Nice thighs, though. "I'm going to help you out, because you seem like a nice guy, Michael. First off, don't go to hand in applications in a Green Day shirt and ripped jeans."

Michael glances down and frowns. "I didn't have time to go home and change," he explains.

"College?" Ashley sticks a paper cup under one of the million complicated buttons.

"Work," Michael frowns. Ashley spins around leaving the machine to shake and spit into the cup by itself. "I, um. I work for a company downtown, um. Zayn-"

"Oh!" Ashley exclaims. "Oh, okay, I know what you're talking about! Applied there myself, but the receptionist didn't like me. His secretary was kind of a bitch about it, too."

Michael blinks at that. "Calum?"

"Calum?" He repeats. "Fuck, I called him Column!" Michael snorts out a laugh at that, while Ashley scowls and turns back to where the machine is now growling and coughing. Something soft brown is coming out the other end, dripping into the cup. "Fine, whatever, I've got a job, now. Okay, second tip, the white isn't working."

"What do you mean, it isn't working?" Michael frowns again and rubs a strand of his hair between his fingers.

"If you want a job," he explains, pulling the paper cup out and switching it for another. "You're going to have to have a natural hair color. Try black, or something." He spins around and shakes about twelve different things into the cup, then sets it down on the counter and snaps a lid on. Michael vaguely wonders if a customer's slipped past him and ordered while he wasn't paying attention.

"Black," Michael repeats. He remembers how smiley Luke was with the temporary black hair dye and thinks, yeah. Black is alright.

"Finally, the construction guys about two buildings away?" He nods his head in the direction of the construction site. Michael looks that way, like he's going to see it through the walls, then turns back to Ashley when he remembers he can't. "They're hiring like mad. Anyone that asks gets a job, I heard. They don't care about tattoos, either. They are a bit strict with the hair and piercings thing, though." He turns when the machine hisses and seems to visibly deflate, and grabs the cup from under the little spout. He shakes the same twelve things into it, then snaps on a lid and sets it next to the other cup.

"Construction guys," he mumbles, looking down at the cups, then back to Ashley's blue hair. He thinks it's probably soft.

"They whistle at me every fucking time I walk past," he mutters. "For homophobic assholes, they're pretty into guys." He grabs a rag and starts wiping away all the spices that didn't quite make it into the cup. His voice takes on a higher pitch as he mimics, "aye papi, wanna come over here? Maybe we can have a cute little chat, yeah? Fuck your little twink ass."

Michael nearly chokes at that, but Ashley just looks up and rolls his eyes, so he takes that as an okay to smile a little. "I promise, I will not be like that. Um, Ashley."

The boy looks up at him for a second in confusion. "Ash- oh, fuck," he looks down at his shirt and unclips the name tag, throwing it onto the counter with a scowl. "Fuck, they know I'm high as fuck when I come in, why do they always do this?" He says it more to himself than to Michael, and tosses the name tag into the garbage behind him.

Michael blinks. Should he really be taking job advice from someone who comes into work high as fuck? Probably not. Is he going to? Probably. "Um," is all he manages, because he's terrible with words.

"Fuck, sorry, my coworkers Louis and Harry work the nightshift and like to switch my name tag out, because they think it's funny," he scowls and sets the rag down again, crossing his arms over his chest. Even with the muscles pulling at his shirt sleeves and the tan skin stretching across this arms, he still looks like a little boy. Michael sort of really fucking likes him.

"It is kind of funny," he smirks a little and the boy (Ashley? Who fucking knows?) looks at him curiously. He let's a tiny bit of a smile spread across his lips and doesn't look quite like an angry toddler anymore.

"It's Ashton," he says finally. "Not- not Ashley. Don't fucking call me that. I'll stab you in the larynx." Michael doubt's Ashton even knows where his larynx is.

"Calm the fuck down," Michael laughs.

"Hey, don't swear," Ashton scolds. He drops his arms down and Michael considers calling him a hypocrite, but the bell above the door chimes from behind him. Ashton glances over and smiles like the fucking sun again, then looks back at Michael. "Hey, these are for you, yeah? Hope you find a job." He pushes the two cups forward a little and Michael realizes the conversation is over.

"There's two," he points out.

"I can count, thanks," Ashton says sarcastically. "I just thought, you know. Someone as cute as you must have someone at home, yeah?" His cheekbones are turning red and Michael can almost feel his doing the same.

He does have someone at home. Maybe not the way that Ashton thinks, but there's someone. And he hates coffee with a living passion, even more than Michael does. He doubt's that Ashton's made hot chocolate or tea, so he just grabs one and pushes the other back across the counter a little. "Guess I'll have to give it to you, then."

And, fuck, if he thought Ashton looked bright before, he needs at least two pairs of sunglasses, now. He just looks so fucking happy and thrilled and excited, and any other positive emotion that Michael's ever learned. Over a fucking coffee. That he had to make. 

(It's not until he's walking away from the coffeeshop and back towards his apartment that he realizes Ashton had somehow drawn a little ghost on the cup, along with his number. He figures the ghost is him, and it's got a smile and some fluffy hair covering its eyes. And, fuck, if he doesn't blush and smile at that.)

 

\----

 

He gets the job at the construction company. His hair's black and his face is bare, but he gets the job. The only problem is, he has to check out of Zayn's business at exactly two, then take two busses and run to make it to the construction company's office to check in at exactly three. No earlier, no later. After he's checked in, he hitches a ride with one of the other late shift workers to whatever construction site he's assigned to.

Luke stares at him when he comes home the first day with red skin, hot from the sun, and aching arms. "Michael, you're a noodle, not a hulk." He says gently. Michael glares at him, but he knows. He knows this isn't good for him. Even Calum and Zayn notice when he falls asleep at his desk twice in one day.

"Spend too long fucking your boyfriend last night?" Calum asks bitterly.

Zayn takes the gentler approach and shushes Calum. "Alright, love?" Michael fucking hates Zayn, too. Zayn's too soft and careful and nice, when he should be mean and pretentious and conceded. He owns a fucking multi million company, there's absolutely no reason he should be this nice. Michael thought he was fake at first, but the longer he works there, the more he realizes that this is exactly how Zayn is. He asks Michael how he's doing at least three times a day and tells him his hair looks nice and Michael thinks if he shoved Zayn off the building, Zayn would tell him it was a lovely push. He fucking hates Zayn.

Michael has to explain the situation and Zayn makes this stupid tsking noise and hums softly in all the right places. Calum softens up a little and doesn't look as annoyed, anymore.

"I'll see if we can go your pay," Zayn offers. Michael really considers shoving him out the window. Calum would probably think that was Luke's fault, too.

"It's alright," Michael says gently. He's still got a small ounce of pride left, and he doesn't want to spend it on Zayn acting like one of those giant plush teddy bears that show up in grocery stores for seemingly no reason.

"Tell Luke he can come here anytime," Zayn tries again. Like the price of the teddy bears keeps dropping lower and lower, and Michael doesn't even want one. "We'll, you know. Feed him. Clothe him. Put a roof over his head."

"We've got a roof," Michael reminds him. He doesn't mention how it's yellow and sagging from all the smoke. "We've got clothes, too. But thanks." He also doesn't mention that the food in the cupboards are running bare, even with Michael's two jobs. He really only works three hours at just above minimum wage, then six hours at minimum, which is enough to cover the rent if they stretch it far enough. Luke is only getting paid for half his work (which makes Michael mad enough to scream, but he doesn't, because Luke startles easily), and that goes to cover toiletries and a bit of food. Luke says they've got enough in savings to last them a month.

He thinks it's probably three and a half weeks, himself.

❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇

The only thing he likes about his second job, is Ashton. Ashton gets off of work at five, and hops down to wherever the construction site is with a coffee in his hand. He's got a ten minute break, and Ashton uses all that time to smile. Someone yells something derogatory at Ashton the first day he shows up, and Ashton ignores them and says, "hi, Michael!" in such a thrilled tone, Michael thinks he's yelling for the queen for a second. Then he remembers he's Michael and the queen isn't anywhere in sight. No one says anything after that, and Ashton's stupidly smug about it.

Ashton tastes like sugar and cinnamon and vanilla coffee, and he kisses almost as sweetly as he tastes. He always blushes high on his cheeks and giggles and he's so fucking cute it's borderline obnoxious. Michael takes him home and they build a blanket fort and Ashton brings chocolate and coffee and they cuddle and smile stupidly at each other, and Michael thinks he's fucking whipped for Ashton, if anything.

Luke fucking loves Ashton more than anything in the world and always lights up when he sees him. Ashton brings him some sort of spiced hot chocolate and small finger sandwiches and soft cookies and smiles like Luke is the second most important thing in the world. Ashton somehow gets Luke to hang his clothes up on hooks and Michael wants to cry about it. Luke crawls into their blanket fort and wraps himself up and smiles happily, and Michael sort of forgets that they're a week away from starving and a month away from dying.

❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇

Ashton smiles softly when he steps off the elevator, and Calum looks up. They both stare at each other, and Calum scowls and Ashton smiles, because that's exactly what everyone expected to happen.

"What's he doing here?" Calum asks bitterly, because Calum isn't a huge fan of anyone that Michael associates himself with. Come to think of it, Calum's not a big fan of people, period.

"Calum," Ashton says smugly, and Calum just rolls his eyes and turns back to his side of the desk. Ashton frowns, because of course he ducking does. He looks like someone's killed his puppy in front of him, and Michael just wants to wrap him in seven blankets and run his fingers through Ashton's blue hair.

"He's just a bitter old man," Michael waves him off and Ashton smiles again. "Don't mind him, he's just jealous that no one gets him coffee."

"Technically, I get him coffee," Ashton giggles, sounds so happy as he does so, and bends down to kiss him softly and carefully. Calum spins around at that and wheels forward in his chair until he's right next to Michael.

"You're dating the coffee guy?" Calum asks, incredulously. Michael smiles and nods and anticipates Ashton's blush and smile. Calum scoffs at that and wheels back to his side of the desk.

"Bitter old man," Michael repeats. Ashton giggles and kisses him again, and Michael almost gets a toothache because of how sweet and gentle this idiot is. He likes him a lot. The elevator opens again and Zayn steps off, then stands there and stares at them all awkwardly. His back is too straight and his shoulders are pushed too far back, and he's just flicking his eyes between the three of them quickly.

"What," Calum snaps, and Zayn holds his hands up as a way of surrender. "Christ, don't just fucking stand there and look at us, you fucking creep."

"I- right, sorry. Where's Luke?" Zayn asks.

"At work?" Michael blinks in confusion. Zayn usually asks his Luke is, but not where. Michael can hear Calum muttering and scribbling with his pen behind him, but doesn't turn around. "Why?"

"Just, yeah, wondering, you know," Zayn nods to quickly and ends up looking awkward. More than he already was. He blinks a couple more times, then ducks his head and hurries to his office. The door shams behind him, then creaks open again. He sticks out his head to apologize, before meeting back inside in slamming the door again. Michael flinches, Calum sighs, and Ashton looks extremely confused.

"Kind of glad I didn't end up working here," he says softly.

"Shut up, Ashley," Calum mutters. Ashton glares at the back of his head, then pouts at Michael.

"Calum," he warns, because Ashton's not allowed to look that sad. Calum isn't allowed to make Ashton look that sad. Not when Ashton's brought a little bag of cookies and a sandwich for both of them, even though hr didn't even know Calum was going to be here. Michael likes him so fucking much it kind of hurts his chest.

"It's fine," Ashton says when Calum spins in his chair to start yelling. "It's fine, I deserve it, I called him Column." (Michael still thinks it's funny, but Calum just scowls and glares about it, so.) "I have to get going anyway, alright? I'll see you later tonight." Ashton kisses his lips softly, then his nose, and smiles so wide, Michael's kind of worried that his face is going to break.

As soon as the elevator doors close behind him, Calum rolls over and looks at Michael sideways. "Hot date?" He asks.

Michael still can't figure out why Calum's entire demeanor changes when it's just the two of them. "I wish," Michael shrugs. "He'll probably visit me during my break, then we'll walk home together, make a blanket fort, cuddle, watch a movie-" he cuts off when he realizes how terribly domestic and soft that sounds.

"You've gone soft," Calum snorts. "Bet he doesn't even fuck, probably calls it 'making love'. He smirks and Michael frowns at him. Neither of them say anything, and Calum seems to connect the dots. "You haven't even fucked yet, have you?" Michael opens his mouth, then closes it again when he feels his cheeks and neck burning. It's not from sunburn, this time. Calum barks out a laugh and throws his head back, and Michael ducks down to hide his schoolgirl blush.

"We're taking it slow," he mutters, covering his face with his hands.

"'We' or 'he'?" Calum asks. Michael doesn't respond and he laughs again. He feels like he should defend himself, say something about not wanting to deflower the poor boy right away, but. He sort of does, is the problem. Calum grins again and claps a hand onto his shoulder. "You're in too deep with this one."

"I'm not, that's the problem!" Michael blurts out, then covers his mouth immediately. He feels wrong, talking about Ashton when he's not here, and he doesn't even know why. Probably because Ashton's soft and sweet and tastes like everything Michal loves, and he doesn't deserve two assholes talking about him behind his back. Calum laughs again, almost snorts a little, and shoves Michael's shoulder.

"Why do you even like him?" Calum asks eventually. "He's a dumbass, probably doesn't even know right from left."

"He's sweet," Michael stresses.

"He's an idiot," Calum corrects.

"He's nice and sweet and gentle,"

"And I happen to know first hand that you don't like any of those things," Calum holds out his hand to start counting things off his fingers. "You like bitter and angry and mean. You like your coffee bitter and you smoke cigarettes 24/7. You like grabbing and pulling and biting, not- not gentle." He says it like it's a bad word, and Michael really fucking hates Calum. "I know that you hate Zayn, and Zayn's, like, a giant bear. Looks scary, is actually soft and careful. He's all those things you just named off, and you hate him. But fucking Ashley-"

"Ashton," Michael says in an exasperated tone. "And besides,opposites attract. And shit."

"Me and you, we're similar, yeah?" Calum nods. Michael would prefer to not be compared to Calum, because Calum is bitter and angry and hard. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows Calum's right, though. He just nods. "We're a lot alike, but I don't like Ashley. He's fucking weird."

"Ashton," Michael mutters. Calum pats his shoulder and rolls back to his side of the desk.

 

\----

 

He thinks he's the bullet. He's the bullet in the chamber. He's charged and bouncing, ready to spring at a moment's notice. All it takes is a single flick of one finger, and he'll be out. He'll shoot out, like hell on fire, and he'll be gone without even looking back.

He thinks he's the bullet, the bullet that gets outside the chamber and hits the nearest thing and explodes. He's self destructive, always has been, and it's only a matter of time before someone pulls the trigger and he's gone.

****

He decides Liz Hemmings is his new favorite person. She's in the kitchen when he gets home, stripping all the food out of the cupboards and replacing it with fresher, healthier things. Albeit, there wasn't much to take out.

"Michael Clifford, what in the world are you doing?" She says as soon as she sees him. Michael blinks, because he's not doing anything. Literally. He's just standing in front of the door in confusion. She strides over easily and pries his cold fingers from where they're squeezing the carton of cigarettes too tightly. It hits him that she hates his smoking almost as much as Luke does. "Goodness, you're froze half to death!"

Liz wraps her hands around his for a second and frowns. Michael shrugs, doesn't really want to point out that he'd given his only pair of glove to Luke, because Luke's jacket had holes in the pockets and Michael's didn't. Instead, he just shoulders off his jacket and pulls away from Liz's hands to hang it up on the hooks. Luke's is there, too, along with the pale blue scarf.

"Luke's already asleep," she informs him, turning around to dig through one of the bags on the couner tops. Michael thinks there's more bags in the apartment than when theyd moved in. "Why don't you take a warm shower and join him, yeah?" She pulls out a black, wool hat and shoves it into his hands. "And wear this before you catch another wretched cold or pneumonia. Can't have you bringing that home and getting my baby boy sick, can I?" She hums as he fingers the material of the hat in his hands. It's thick and warmth is alteady starting to seep through his fingers.

"Liz-" he starts, but his voice cracks and sounds terribly rough and vicious.

Liz just holds her hand up and turns away from him to start unpacking the bags. "I bought one for Luke, too, so don't even start. Might as well go back out and get you proper jackets and gloves now, too. Little hooligans are going to freeze to death."

Michael tries not to crack a smile, but he does anyway, and hides his face in the fabric of his hat. His mouth and the bottom of his nose and his chin get considerably warmer at the touch.

His shower is quick, because the hot water runs out in only a fee minutes time. It's a shower, none the less, and he does get warmer and his skin even feels softer. He blames Luke's body wash with the soft blue tint.

Luke's room is almost clean, with all his clothes piled together in the corner, and he doesn't even have anything to trip over this time. Luke's clearly been waiting for him, because his eyes flutter open and he smiles softly as soon as they make eye contact.

Luke's laying in the middle of the bed with his legs pressed together and crossed at the knee. One of his arms is pushed under his pillow, underneath his head, while the other wraps across his torso and squeezes his opposite hip. The heavy duvet is pulled over his chest by one corner, but noy touching him anywhere else. Instead, its rumbled and curled up on the other side of the bed. The thin curtains are drawn, and the soft gray light that slips through them casts light shadows across Luke's face and skin.

He looks black and white, like an old photograph that woman would have had in the 50's, or something.

(He remembers the time when he was 14 and in the middle of the grocery store, being an angsty, emo teenager. He remembers flipping through a Rolling Stone, going to put it back, seeing a boy without a shirt on the rack to th left. He remembers grabbing it hastily and glancing around to make sure no one was watching, before flicking through it. He remembers the model photo in black in white, with man in bed wearing nothing but a blanket over his dick, with his arms shoved under his head. He remembers ripping the picture out while no one was looking, remembers shoving it into his pillow case so no one would find it. He remebers how fucking beautiful Luke is.)

Luke looks beautiful, and tired, and Michael should want to kiss up his chest and mark up his skin. He should want to drag his teeth across Luke's lips and run his hands through his hair. But he doesn't.

(Alright, that's a lie. He does. He really, really does. But that's not the priority here.)

"Jesus Luke, it's fucking freezing in here," is what finally comes out of his mouth. He can see the goosebumps casting shadows across Luke's thighs and arms, tries not to notice the way his muscles are doing the same thing. "You're going to catch a cold in your own bed, for fuck's sake." He crosses over to Luke's bed and pulls the blanket off, watching as Luke's sleepy grin flips upside down and becomes a pout.

"Was hoping you were gonna come keep me warm," he says lazily. Luke looks soft and his eyes are a little wide, and Michael couldn't say no if he'd wanted to. He knows he can walk away, go back to his own bedroom and fend in the cold by himself, but he doesn't want to. He wants to snuggle Luke against his chest and kiss the top of his head and wrap them both in blankets.

So he does.

He snatches the blanket away from Luke and wraps it around his own shoulders. Luke opens his mouth to protest, but Michael just crawls over and flops on top of him. Luke's legs are bracketing his, their pressing together everywhere, bare skin to bare skin, toucan boxers to black boxers. The blanket flutters down on top of their legs and Michael reaches back to luck the edges under Luke's knees and hips. He looks back and touches his nose to Luke's, smiles at the way Luke goes cross eyed trying to look at him.

"Alright?" He asks softly. Luke nods, nose moving and bumping, so Michael wiggles a little until he can lean his chin against Luke's shoulder, cheek resting against the soft pillow. 

Luke's freezing underneath him, skin cold and goosebumps slowly falling back down. He smiles and presses a soft kiss to Luke's jawline, and Luke just hums.

"Love you," he mumbles, because he's a sap and he likes to push Luke to the edge.

Luke doesn't even get close to the edge anymore. "Love you, too,"

****

He gets a brand new winter jacket and mittens from Liz for Christmas. Luke says he's offering free cuddles and manages to scrape a pair of black dress pants that will actually fit him. Calum frames a picture of himself and sets it on the corner of his desk (its a nice picture. He keeps it.), and Zayn gives them both two paid weeks off.

Ashton gets him a coffee maker and kisses him softly. Then harder and harder, and he feels bad that all he got Ashton in return was a blowjob.

His own family has yet to make an appearance.

****

The construction company gives him off the week between Christmas and New Years Day off, paid vacation luckily. Luke only gets off four days, and they spend both Christmas and New Years Eve with Ashton, and Christmas Day with Luke's family. January First is spent together on the couch in ugly sweaters that Luke's aunt had knit them and hot chocolate that they make with the coffee machine.

Luke kisses his cheek loudly with the sweater pressed against once side of his neck and hanging off his other shoulder. The junction if his neck is bare and taut, so he bites it lightly and Luke shoves him off with a grin. They smile stupidly at each other, then go backto the egg nog Luke had stolen from the fridge at the office and the parade blurring on the television.

****

On his tenth day of vacation, he walks into the coffee shop with a smile on his face. It drops as soon as the bell above the door chimes.

Ashton's sitting on the countertop with his heels hooked around Calum's thighs. He shoves Calum away within a second, and the first words out of his mouth are "it's not what it looks like."

"It's exactly what it looks like," Calum is straightforward. He hates Calum slightly less but a lot more at the same time. He doesn't respond, just ends quickly, awkwardly, and spins on his heel. His fingers dig into the door handle almost painfully, and he rips it open and hurries away as fast as he can. He hates the way his eyes burn and he hates the way his throat closed until he can't breathe.

"Wait!" Ashton calls after him. He keeps walking as fast as he can without looking like he's fleeing the scene of a crime (a voice in the back of his head wonders if lechery is still a crime punishable by death).

He doesn't know where to go, what to do, what to think. He goes to Luke.

 

\----

 

Calum doesn't look him in the eye for two days.

Ashton doesn't show his face for three weeks.

Zayn doesn't say anything at all.

On the third day, Calum offers him a cigarette with the corners of his lips tilted up and his eyes soft and careful. Like he's testing the waters. He holds up his own pack and shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. Calum frowns like he has any right to be hurt.

On the fourth week, Ashton steps off the elevator with a neutral face and his arms full. He sets a coffee cup on both sides of the desk and a bag of food on top of the printer that seperates the two halves of the circular desk.

He grabs his coffee without looking up from the papers he's pretending to read over and drops it into the garbage can next to him with a heavy thud. Much to his surprise, Calum follows his lead and does the exact same thing with his coffee.

"Luke took it," Ashton mutters dejectedly. Neither of them respond and Ashton leaves eventually.

Zayn ducks his head down every time he has to walk past them, which is at least seven times a day. He's quiet and tries to avoid eye contact and make himself look as small as possible. It's awkward and they all consider quitting more than once over the span of a week.

It takes a month, but eventually he figures out what to say to Calum. They've both been silent and careful around each other, not moving very fast so as not to scare the other off, and making sure their presence is known by dragging their feet or clicking their tongues. But he has to bring up the situation eventually. So he does.

"I thought you hated him," is what finally comes out. His voice cracks and is a pitch too high, but at least he's said something. He highlights something on the legal papers he's reviewing and doesn't hear Calum's chair move or spin. He doesn't hear Calum at all, actually, and he's about to turn around to check if he's actually there when he speaks up finally.

"I dont," Calum's voice rings out in the heavy silence, even though it's still soft and careful. He doesn't elaborate or offer any sort of explanation, though.

"Then why were you kissing him?" He clears his throat to make sure it doesn't break again. It sounds almost normal this time.

"He kissed me," Calum says firmly. "I didn't even know what was happening, he just kissed me and then you walked in." There's something lingering in the air, something heavy that he hasn't said. Neither of them say anything and he rehighlights the same three lines he'd managed to get done. Calum comes around after a minute or two. "Said you were taking too long and he wanted something fast and easy." He pauses to scoff and he can almost hear Calum's eyebrows pulling together in annoyance. "'M not easy!"

His teeth grit together. "Did you fuck him?"

Calum doesn't answer the question. Instead he puts on his best warning tone and says, "Michael."

Michael spins around on his chair to face Calum's back. He sticks his foot out and pushes the lever on the side with his toe, making the chair sink down with a heavy sigh. Calum copies the noise and sets down his pen, and Michael pushes the side of the chair until Calum's facing him. "Did you fuck him?" He repeats, putting more emphasis on each word to make sure Calum hears the question this time.

Calum looks down, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. "Yeah." He looks up again like he expects Michael to start yelling and screaming, maybe trash the entire office and throw some stuff. He doesn't.

He feels frustrated and angry, but a weird level of calm, too. Like he can rest peacefully now that he knows what happened. He digs in the pocket of his jeans until his fingers wrap around the carton of cigarettes. One falls out of the pack and into his palm, and he shakes out another one after a short pause. He throws it at Calum, doesn't bother looking up to see if he catches it or not, and reaches behind him for the lighter. After a few flicks, its pretty obvious the fluid is gone and its not going to light, but he keeps trying. Because there's no way he can buy another one, so this one has to work. It has to. It doesn't.

Calum offers his up and lights both their cigarettes despite the frustrated noise Michael makes. He holds out our the red lighter and presses it into Michael's palm, muttering out, "keep it."

Michael fucking hates him.

He shoves the lighter into his pocket.

♪♪♪♪

There's a guy knocking on the apartment door when he reaches it. He shoves a few locks of his bright flash of red hair further off his forehead and frowns when he turns. His noise is small and pinched (he hates that he knows it's probably from crack), and his eyes narrow when he stops in front of the man.

"Your rent is late," and, yes, this would be Mr. Gerard something. Gerard isn't a bad landlord, it's just. He likes the rent on time and they can't always do that. "Michael, I can't keep paying part of your rent. I know you're both struggling, but there's two of you and you both have jobs. I'm going to need it in full."

Michael nods but doesn't respond. He doesn't think they have the rent in full. Gerard raises his eyebrows and gestures to the dark wood door next to him.

"If you give us a few more days-" he starts to bargain. They can't be thrown out, not when their finally starting to get into the swing of work and everything. Besides, now they can sell the coffee machine, apparently. (He ignores the way his eyes burn, ever though he's not sure whether its over the loss of a coffee machine, Ashton, Calum, or the apartment.)

"Now," Gerard sounds exasperated. Michael doesn't blame him. He fumbles around with his keys and finds the lock stuck again. While he struggles to twist it, he sends a small, shaky smile to his left.

"I like your hair," he tries.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Clifford," the landlord says firmly. He tugs a hand through his hair though and looks down. The key finally clicks and the door swings open. It's just as cold as outside, and Michael shoves his hands back into his warm pockets, along with the keys.

"I'll, yeah," Michael gestures towards one of the bedrooms and Gerard nods, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping into the apartment. He makes no move to close the door and Michael figures there's really no point, anyway.

The jar that's buried under his bed is only filled halfway with crumpled notes. It's his own secret stash, something he's pulling out of his paycheck every week in an attempt to buy Luke some new shoes by the time his birthday rolls around. He's halfway there, which only covers about one fourth of the rent. The contents of the jar get dumped onto the bed, along with what he manages to dig out of his wallet.

He has to pass by the living room on his way to Luke's room and ducks his head down to avoid eye contact. the money is pressing against his palms with sharp corners and hard lines, digging into the skin and scraping against his fingers. Luke's money is hidden in his mattress, he has to unzip the side and reach all the way up to his elbow to grab it, and raises his eyebrows at what he manages to pull out. Luke's got a lot more stashed than he'd anticipated, and he's about three fourths of the way to what Gerard is looking for. It's still not enough. His bank account is dry and Luke's isn't much better, and neither of his their paychecks come in for another week and a half.

"I've got some, but-" he starts talking before he gets into the loving room, but cuts off when he glances up. Gerard still has his arms crossed over his chest, but he's sidestepped to the right to avoid touching the guy that's now standing in the doorway.

Michael's never seen whoever it is, but he's got short brown hair and soft skin and he smiles with all of his sharp white teeth. Michael pauses and almost trips, but manages to keep himself upright. He looks back to Gerard when he realizes the guy is just go in to stand there patiently until he figures out what's happening.

"I've got most of it," Michael clears his throat so his voice doesn't sound so soft and shaky. He holds up his clasped hands, which are fuel of money, and Gerard raises his eyebrows. He sets it all down on the counter and goes through it quickly, counting out loud so Gerard can see. When he's finished, the landlord shakes his head. Michael can feel his stomach somewhere near his pelvis or thighs. His toes are burning, as are his fingers and cheeks.

"I said all, Michael," he says, like Michael might have forgotten. He hasn't. He's just chosen to forgo it.

"I know," Michael nods too quickly and tries to keep his head from rolling off as a result. He swallows thickly and clears his throat again before his next words. "You can have the coffee machine if you want. Or the couch. Here, take my jacket." He strts taking off his jacket, rolling his shoulders to shrug out of it, but the other guy steps forward before he can get his arms untangled.

"How much does he need?" he asks curiously. Gerard relays the amount and the guy shrugs his shoulders, smiles with his teeth again. "That's nothing. I got it."

"What?" Michael blinks, because he's not really sure what's happening. This- this strangercan't be offering to pay his rent. The guy digs in his pocket, though, and comes up with a checkbook and pen. He scribbles something down while Michael stares at him in complete bewilderment and signs his name wildly. The checks makes a tearing noise when he rips it out, and Michael makes a similar sort of strangled noise when he hands it over to Gerard. 

"Wait, you can't-" he starts.

"Would you like to pay up for the rest?" Gerard raises his eyebrows. Michael doesn't know how to respond to that. Yeah, actually, he would like to pay the rest. But he can't. He snaps his mouth hut, not quite sure what to do with himself after that, and Gerard nods sharply. He marches out of the apartment with his head held high and a small spring in his step.

Once they're left alone, Michael slowly turns to the guy, who seems to be struggling with the pen cap. "Do youwant my jacket?" he asks.

The guys laughs, a beautiful noise that sounds like bells. He shakes his head and says, "Doubt it would fit me." It's true. He's more built than Michael, maybe even a few centimeters taller, and his waist is thicker with muscle. "Consider it a favor. Just pass it on someday, yeah?"

"I'm Michael," he blurts out, because he doesn't know what else to say. He'll pass it on.

The guy holds his hand out and smiles some more. "Rian, I'm visiting some friends, but I couldn't figure out which apartment was theirs."

"Yeah?" Michael swallows again and shakes his hand. He's strong enough that it almost hurts.

"Yeah, Jack and Alex?" He asks, like Michael knows everyone in the building. "Uh, brown hair? Really loud? They own at least seven different instruments and play them, along with punk music, at loud volumes all day?"

"Oh!" Michael nods. "Yeah, you're on the wrong floor. Upstairs and to the left three doors. I want to say it's 743?"

"Yeah, that sounds right," Rian nods again. "Alright, well. Nice meeting you, Michael. Maybe I'll see you around sometime, yeah?"

Michael panics, because he's barely even said thank you. He flutters his hands in front of him for a second, then sidesteps over to the kitchen. The cord on the coffee machine almost breaks when he rips it out of the wall, so he wraps it around the base before shoving it at Rian.

"Here, take it," he says firmly when Rian opens his mouth to protest. "Think of it as a thank you."

"I don't really-"

"We don't even like coffee," he explains quickly. "My boyfriend- um, ex boyfriend- gave it to me, then fucked my boss. So. Please, take it. Give it away for all I care."

Rian pauses, glances between the coffee machine and Michael for maybe a second too long, but smiles and nods eventually. "Alright, man."

♪♪♪♪

It's not until a month later that they find out Rian's paid for three months worth of rent. Luke makes him take cookies and a card that says "thanks for having super cool friends" up to Jack and Alex in apartment 743.

 

\----

 

He doesn't like the word blue. It's so dull and even. Blue. It's a normal word, just a color and a blatant word that has no meaning. The word blue doesn't even begin to describe Luke's eyes.

He likes beautiful words to describe Luke's eyes, like crystalline or radiant or glittering. Those words begin to describe how bright they are. They're just the tip of the ice burg, an edge of the explanation.

Luke's eyes are like a cool autumn day with leaves crunching and fluttering to the ground and a clear sky. Like when you can barely breathe in the cold air and your nose feels clear and rough all at once. Like the sky is free of any clouds from horizon to horizon and it's just one solid color, with the sun brightening one corner and doing nothing to warm the air.

Luke's eyes are like warm summer days where the sky is so gray but so blue. A day where you can't tell if the sky is covered in thick rain clouds or dark blue sky. Like the feeling of calmness and content flooding through your body and spreading out your bones until you're at ease.

So, yeah. He thinks the word blue is sort of dull.

♪♪♪♪

It's warm enough now that Luke doesn't have to shed one jacket at the front door and the other in his room, and the faded scarf isn't around for anyone to trip on. It's warm enough that they only have to use a blanket and each other for warmth at night, and nothing but a sweatshirt during the day.

The jackets and hats and gloves get shoved under Luke's bed, along with the shoebox full of money thyve managed to scrape up since thy didn't have to worry about rent for a while, thanks to Rian. Luke keeps the scarf out and shoves it into the pocket of his sweatshirt if it's too hot to wear it.

The scarf had been something he'd worn through high school, then given to Luke one night, two winters ago, when the heat in their apartment didnt work. He'd wrapped it around Luke's neck a few times, then wrapped them both in blankets and pressed his lips against Luke's neck.

Luke hasn't lost track of the scarf since that night.

When he gets home from the construction job, Luke's on the couch, wrapping the pale scarf around his wrist, letting it fall off, wrapping it around his wrist again.

There's a thick, blue folder in his lap with papers sticking out of itand folding across the top. Luke's knuckles are white where they're on either side of it, left thumb brushing across the top gently. His feet are tapping out an uneven, unconscious beat on the stained carpeting, and his elbows are twitching like his arms want to join in on the beat.

"Would you follow me anywhere, Michael?" He asks softly, voice barely above a whisper. Michael's barely even got the door closed.

"Yeah," he says without really thinking. He would, though. They've jumped around so many apartments, jobs, friends, family members, lives. One thing always stays constant, and that's Luke. Luke is always there, like a dull throb in the back of his head. A pleasant throb, though, one he probably wouldn't even notice until it was gone.

"Yeah?" Luke repeats, not even bothering to tear his eyes away from the black television screen. They look almost glazed over, more like a storm than a cool autumn day.

"Course I would, Lukey," he says softly. He doesn't know where this is coming from, why Luke's asking this question now, but he doesn't care. He cares that Luke knows that the answer is always going to be yes.

♪♪♪♪

It's one of those unusual days where he gets out of Zayn's office at two and the construction company has nothing for hin to do. He goes home and finds Luke curled in his bed, blankets wrapped around his shoulders, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeckbones.

The sun is still shining outside, so the room is bright and Luke's skin looks more yellow than pale peach. He must have showered when he got home, because his hair is still clumped together and a little damp, and resting against his forehead lightly. He looks almost peaceful, the line of his body shadowing the bedsheets next to him, but his mouth is tilted down. His eyelashes keep fluttering and moving, and his lips part just slightly, enough to drop out a soft noise.

He doesn't even peel off his sweatshirt.

He crawls up the bed and settles against Luke's side, shifting until he can brush his fingers lightly over Luke's check. The muscles under the soft skin tense as Luke clenches his jaw, and his eyes fly open Luke's eyes dart around frantically, try in to get his bearings and remember what's happening. Eventually, he settles down enough to relax and huff out a soft puff of breath.

"What are you doing home, Michael?" He asks softly.

"Didn't have any work to do," he smiles and reaches up to brush a few bits of hair off Luke's forehead. They fall to the side and fit in with the other's, and Luke closes his eyes again.

"Oh," Luke hums. He shifts around, slipping, movents stuttered, and manages to shake the blanket enough to get Michael inside the cocoon with him. He shoves his knee between Michael's without an invitation, cold toes of his other foot pressed against the worn fabric of Michael's black jean covered shins. He smiles and rests his forehead against Michael's shoulder, nose brushing across his collarbone every so often.

He hikes up Luke's shirt and presses his hand against the flat of Luke's stomach underneath. His fingers stretch out slowly and run against the curve of Luke's ribs, still prominent, despite the extra money they've had for a while.

"Need to eat more," he mumbles into Luke's hair, pressing a soft kiss to Luke's head.

"Make me some cookies," Luke says back. Michael's probably going to. He might burn down the apartment building, but if Luke wants some cookies, he'll bake him some cookies.

"Sorry, I only make cookies for cute boys with super cool friends, that play guitar and sing all the time," he looks up at the ceiling, like just mentioning it will make him be able to see through the floor.

"You think Jack is cute?" Luke asks.

"I never said that," Michael defends quickly. "Who knows, maybe I think Alex is cute. Or Rian."

Luke gives him a look. "Rian is hot." Michael smirks at that. Luke seems to realize his mistake and huffs a little, pressing his bottom lip against Michael's neck in a pout.

"Well, I'm not going to argue it," He says instead of teasing Luke incessantly. Luke will just call him a gnat and swat at his head, so he'll just save him the trouble. Besides, he's warm with Luke pressing against him.

"No Jack?" Luke asks, though. He confirms that, yes, no Jack, can feel Luke's lips stretching into a smile against his skin. "Alright, better start on those cookies, then."

♪♪♪♪

Calum asks why the framed picture of him is still on the corner of his desk. He shrugs, says it's a nice picture.

The fact that Ashton comes in once a week to bring them coffee and sandwiches has nothing to do with it, though the little glare the picture frame gets as he walks past is an added bonus.

He dyes his hair bright blue, with a few purple highlights that Luke helps with, then smiles at the glare Ashton gives him. Ashton's hair is green next time he comes in.

"It suits you," Calum says, nodding in approval. "Green's the color of envy, innit?"

He snorts, accepts the cigarette that Calum passes him, and leans back on his chair. Ashton looks between the two of them with a glare, eyeing their matching cigarettes pointedly. He lights his while Calum blows smoke out of the side of his mouth.

"Those things will kill you," Ashton says.

"I'm counting on it," he blows the smoke up, tilting his neck to watch it curl and spin in aimless, lazy circles. It soaks into the bright white ceiling.

♪♪♪♪

It's seven in the evening and Luke has a gash on his cheek and empty pockets. He's much more concerned with the gash than the pockets.

"What the hell?" Is the first thing out of his mouth when he looks up to find Luke standing over him. His hand is pressed to his cheek, two fingers splayed on either side of his eye, with blood dripping through his fingers and onto the carpeting and his white shirt. Dark crimson stains his shoulders already in spots and streaks. There's some dribbling down his chin, too, dripping down his neck and across his collarbones.

"I got mugged, Michael," Luke responds, like it's obvious. Michael coughs a little, choking on nothing but air and the staleness of Luke's words. He hefts himself off of the couch and ushers Luke over to one of the plastic, fold out chairs. Luke collapses into it, making the whole thing creak and shake, and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. When he opens them again, they're squinted and dark. Storm clouds on the edge of a horizon with lightening flashing through them.

"Shit, fuck, are you alright?" Michael asks frantically, because he has no idea what to do in this situation. Should he have Luke move his hand? Should he clean the gash with soapy water? He doubts they even have Band-Aids, let alone ones to cover the four centimeter long cut.

A drop of blood falls off of Luke's chin and splatters to the table, seeping into a spot that's bare of the plastic covering. Luke frowns at it. Michael nearly rips his hair out.

Zayn would know what to do. He calls Calum instead.

"I don't fucking know, put some ice on it?" Calum says. Michael informs him that they have no ice, and he changes his answer to frozen peas, carrots, fucking brussel sprouts, anything frozen they have. He comes up with an ice cream sandwich and holds it out to Luke. Luke frowns at it, leaving red fingerprints and smears all over the white package.

"Now what?" Michael asks. Calum huffs and mumbles something about the internet. He waits for Calum to come back, twisting the hem of his shirt with his free hand and frowning down at Luke. Luke pulls his hand back a little, enough to show that his entire cheek is covered in blood, as is his hand and his jaw. It drips further down his neck and seeps into the collar of his shirt.

"Okay, it says you should go to the hospital?" Calum says after Michael's frantically piched Luke's elbow to get him to cover up his cheek again.

"The hospital?" Michael repeats, scrunching up his nose. He's actually starting to feel his heart in his throat and his stomach in his toes. They can't afford the hospital. Even with the money they've saved up, there's no way in hell. He glances back down at Luke.

Luke's already looking at him with wide eyes (like ice on a frozen lake), and his bottom lip sucked into his mouth. There's blood dribbling across his chin. The red is standing out darkly against his pale skin, not to mention his white shirt.

"I'm coming over," Calum says, sensing his hesitance. Calum's only a little bit informed on their financial statement, but even he knows the hospital isn't an option.

"Calum, no-" there's a click and the line goes dead. He clanches his jaw and throws the phone onto the table behind Luke, stepping forward to stand between Luke's knees. "Calum's coming over."

"Calum your boss," Luke clarifies. Michael nods and Luke groans, closing his eyes as he makes an annoyed face. "But I hate Calum!"

"He's not that bad," Michael frowns. Calum gives him lighters and cigarettes and sandwiches, sometimes. The coffee had stopped for a short amount of time, but when he started bringing it gain, it tasted different. He wants to say worse, but Ashton might find out somehow and get a little arrogant.

"Really?" Luke's speech is a bit slurred and slow. Michael wants to tell him to shut up and focus on healing himself or something. He listens to Luke rant, instead. "He's annoying, he's barely even talked to me, he's crabby, he's bitter, he hates people, he fucked your boyfriend! And he smokes! And he has, like twenty tattoos and piercings, and he's just weird!"

Michael frowns, "He's just like me."

Luke chooses not to respond to that, and turns a little to claw blindly at the table for the phone. "I'm calling Ashton. He'll know what to do."

"You are not calling Ashton," he says firmly, reaching forward to snatch the phone off the table. Luke grabs his elbow and rips the phone away, then cradles it against his chest like its his most prized posession. Michael doesn't even struggle, because Luke's hurt and he doesn't really want to risk anything.

"Ashton is my friend and he's smarter than you give him credit for," Luke says firmly. Michael holds his hands up in surrender, because it wouldn't be fair if Calum came over and Ashton didn't. No matter how much Michael is trying to avoid him, Luke is still friends with Ashton. Luke pulls the phone away from his chest and stares at it blankly. His eyes keep darting across the numbers and the tiny screen, like he can't focus on them. His body is swaying on the chair slightly, and he just finally looks up at Michael helplessly.

"You owe me," he mutters, ripping the phone away. He dials Ashton's number (hates that he remembers it), and bites his lip while it dials.

Ashton answers with a "Yo," which Michael figures is equally lame and unprofessional.

He sighs heavily and considers hanging up, but Luke's staring at him expectantly, eyes wide and bottom lip in a pout. He gets distracted by something above Michael's head for a second, then jerks back to reality, blinking furiously.

"It's me," Michael sighs finally. He can practically hear Ashton grinning from the other end of the line. "Listen, Luke got hurt and we- he needs some help. And asked me to call you." He's about to add that Calum's coming, too, but decides some things are better left as a surprise. A bitter, scowling surprise.

"How hurt?" Ashton asks after a short silence.

"There's a lot of blood," he says. There's not a lot more to say and Ashton hangs up soon after. Luke is staring at the floor with his eyes glazed over and his mouth dropped open. His fingers are slipping off his cheek, letting blood flow freely down the side of his face and neck.

"Luke?" For the first time, Michael's actually afraid Luke's going to die. There's so much blood and there's no way the can cover it with a cheap bandaid. "Luke, babe, stay focused." He sinks down to his knees in front of Luke and grabs Luke's wrist. Luke jerks a little and looks around frantically, entire body tensing up for a second. He covers Luke's hand with his own, ignoring the warm blood against his palm, and presses Luke's hand back against the gash. His fingers are cold and limp, and Michael can move them around freely, much to his dismay. He's never wanted Luke to struggle more in his life.

"Am I going to die?" Luke whispers. His voice is shaky and cuts off twice before the end of the sentence. Michael shakes his head, grabbing Luke's hand until his knuckles are white, and swallows thickly.

"No, no you're not," he says firmly. He's not sure who he's trying to convince more, Luke or himself.

Ashton shows up first, and makes a horrified face at their position. He rips their hands away and presses a towel to the gash instead, making Michael hold it while he wets another towel to wipe the blood off the rest of Luke's face.

"Have you got any vodka? White wine?" Ashton asks.

"We don't really drink," Michael shakes his head, still kneeling between Luke's legs with his hand pressed against his cheek. He doesn't add that they couldn't really afford to drink, and he doesn't have to. The front door swings open then, knocking against the wall behind it.

"Shit, fuck, sorry," Calum says as he steps in. He pulls the door away from the wall and looks for any marks, before glancing at them. His eyes harden as soon as he sees Ashton. "Why is Ashley here?"

"Why is Column here?" Ashton asks. Michael lets out an exasperated sigh and eyes them both.

Luke just sticks out his hand and pats Ashton's head blindly, getting blood inbetween the strands of his green hair. "'S my friend." Luke says. Ashton smiles, but it's not smug or pretentious. It's stupidly fond and happy and it's pointed at Luke.

Calum trips over himself to get out of the way as Zayn walks in, hands shoved deep in his pockets and a confused look on his face. He glances at all of them and frowns even deeper.

"Hello, Ashley," he says finally. Ashton scoffs and glares at Calum, who looks ridiculously smug about it. Zayn sounds completely genuine, though, like he actually has no idea Ashton's name isn't Ashley.

"It's Ashton," Michael says before he can stop himself. Zayn looks startled at that and looks at Calum, who shakes his head slowly. "Fuck, why are you even here?"

"Because you need my money," Zayn says bluntly. "Besides, I was with Calum, anyway. We were getting coffee."

"You were-" Ashton looks offended at that. Michael cuts him off.

"We don't need your money," he says firmly. Luke's still got his fingers threaded in Ashton's hair, and Ashton still has a damp and bloody towel in his hair. Michael hates everyone in the room, besides Luke.

"Too bad, I already called the ambulance," Zayn shrugs. Calum's making a series of angry glares at Ashton, whose returning them just as quick. Zayn looks between them with a frown. "Can you guys stop? It's kind of annoying."

"He started it," Calum mutters.

Michael has no idea how this is his life. Luke's literally dying in front of him, and his boss is making faces at his ex boyfriend like they're both seven. He frown and presses the towel against Luke's cheek in a way that must be painful. Luke doesn't even flinch. He reaches up and pushes a few pieces of hair off Luke's forehead, away from his eyes (they're almost white, now. Like a pale blue sky that could also be soft rain clouds).

"Not gonna die," Luke says softly. "Need someone to keep you happy and sane." Michael nods and swallows, barely even notices he's crying until his eyes burn and his fingers are white around the towel and Luke's knee.

Calum tugs him away gently with an arm around his waist, while Ashton grabs the towel. He presses it against Luke's cheek carefully and Luke's eyes flutter shut. His skin is pale and he's slumped over where Ashton isn't holding him up by the elbow.

"I think he's out," Ashton says. They all flinch at the bluntness of the statement and look at Michael expectantly.

"No, no no no, no he's not," Michael struggles to get out of Calum's grip. Fingers dig into his biceps and hold him in place. His throat keeps burning, like he's constantly swallowing bleach, and his vision blears over. "Fuck! I promised he'd be alright!" He yells. Another pair of hands dig into the left side of his waist and his right wrist, not quite as tight as Calum's, but still enough to hold him in place.

The paramedics take Luke away not ten minutes later. He rides to the hospital with Calum and the next hour is spent with a lot of white. White floors, white walls, white gowns, white chairs. White, white, white. It's not glittering or radiant, either. It's just white. Bland, boring, Borderline-Gray white. He fucking hates white. 

 

\----

 

He can remember the first time he met Luke. He was eight and Luke was five and sitting on the swing set with dasies stuck in his blonde hair.

He remembers marching right up to the boy with the flower petals and stems sticking out of his hair and asking, "Why have you got flowers in you hair? My dad says flowers are gay."

He remembers the way Luke's face had dropped as he reached up to rub the petal of one flower between his thumb and fingers. "My brothers said gay is okay."

They'd been too young to understand the conversation , and he's almost confused as to why Luke's statement makes him smile. He remembers the way Luke had picked a few more flowers and tangled them in his hair, then smiled, "We match!"

He can remember when he turned ten and Luke was the only one to wish him happy birthday. He remembers staying at Luke's house for the whole weekend, remembers Liz smiling at him and making a cake.

He doesn't remember Liz's concerned looks tossed at his back and the hushed conversations she'd had with Luke's dad.

Luke bought him a battery powered toy truck and he remembers the way they spent the weekend racing the car around Luke's backyard.

He can remember the day he realized his parents didn't really like him. He was twelve, a late bloomer in the realization department, and he had to hold his tongue from screaming all the time.

He remembers the bruises he told Liz were from tripping down the stairs or bumping into tables. He remembers Liz's smile of understanding and offers of more sleepovers.

He doesn't remember the frowns and phone calls she made after he was out of earshot.

He can remember when his dad got taken away. At thirteen, he didn't really understand it completely. He had a bruise on his eye and a cracked lip, and he remembers Liz standing in his front yard with her arms crossed, blue and red lights flashing against her skin.

He remembers his mother screaming as his dad shifted uncomfortably in the back of the barred cop car, remembers the sick slapher hand had made when it came in contact with Liz's cheek. He remembers his mother getting put in another car and his hand sliding into Liz's, still confused as to why his mother was going away, too. It was his dad that was caught hitting him, not his mom.

He remembers crawling into bed with Luke that night and remembers sobbing against Luke's chest, Luke's hand sliding into his hair and around his back.

He doesn't remember Luke's own sobs and whimpers or when Liz brought them both a glass of water in the middle of the night so they wouldn't get dehydrated.

He can remember when he kissed Luke for the first time. It had been a spur of the moment thing. Luke had been complaining for weeks about not having his first kiss at the ripe age of twelve and he had just about had it up to here, damnit, with Luke's complaining.

He remembers surging forward to connect their lips and remembers the way neither of them really moved. Just stared at each other in shock for a few seconds, despite their lips being connected and their noses pressed together. He remembers how bright Luke's eyes had been, full of shock and surprise, still sparkling, despite.

He remembers jerking away and wiping his lips on the back of his hand, "there. Now stop complaining about it." (He remembers frowning, because he had just turned 16 and this was almost illegal, or something.)

He doesn't remember Luke's hidden smile under his palm or the giggle Luke let out as soon as he walked out of the room.

He can remember dropping out of school at seventeen. He'd been living with his mum, fresh out of jail and claiming custody over her child, despite Liz's nasty legal battle. He remembers the way she hit him and the way he cowered, then ran.

He remembers Liz's frown, then hesitant smile as she said, "We'll support you no matter what, Michael."

He remembers Luke's confused look, the way he said, "Is this because you don't like Mr. Woods? Michael, there's only a few days left of the semester-"

He remembers smiling widely at Luke and saying, "School just isn't working out for me." He remembers how Luke screamed at him, threw things at him, told him to finish school at least. He remembers Luke calling him a deadbeat and hitting him with a glass plate, remembers the panic on Luke's face when blood dripped into his eye.

He remembers Luke crying because neither of them could drive and he didn't want to call an ambulance (the flashing blue and red lights weighed heavy in his stomach and made his toes feel weird). He remembers Luke's brothers coming Home and driving him to be stitched up at the hospital, remembers Luke's tear soaked face whispering soft words and gentle apologies into the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn't remember the pain of being stitched up or the way Liz had cried because Luke came to her and said, "Mom, what if I turn into Michael's parents?"

He can remember the first time Luke kissed him and he felt it in his bones. He was only twenty, Luke only sixteen, and he just wanted to do nothing but kiss Luke lazily and feel nothing but Luke. His young, clouded mind was on a constant loop of LukeLukeLuke.

He remembers it being accidental, just a brush of their lips while Luke reached over him, and he remembers Luke pushing into it too hard to pass it off as just an accident. He remembers Luke's hand landing on the side of his face in something that, looking back, could have been a slap.

He remembers his veins lighting on fire, every inch of him getting hotter and hotter like he was under a heat lamp. His bones tingled and fell, heavy and rough, clanking and falling against his muscles, every one of which was stretched and tense. He remembers Luke pushing back suddenly, leaning over to grab whatever he was reaching for, sitting back in his spot. Like nothing had happened.

He doesn't remember the hot blush spreading it's way up Luke's cheek and chest, or the smile that stretched his lips up for days afterwards.

He doesn't remember a lot of things, but Luke's filled him in over the years. Whether it be in gentle tones murmured into his neck or the way Luke grabs his arms, he's filled in on everything he could possibly need to know. By the small touches Luke sends him, and by the carefully kisses placed at the hollow of his throat, followed by Luke's eyes gauging his reaction from under a thin veil of his eyelashes.

So, really, it's not a surprise that he jerks awake in the hospital waiting room at three in the morning and says, "I'm so in love with Luke."

Its also not a surprise that Calum turns to look at him lazily, regards his tense back and white knuckles around the chair's arm with careful eyes, then says, "Good for you, dude."

Ashton, on the other hand, has been drifting in and out of sleep on the chair next to him, but seems to wake up at the declaration. He frowns and Calum glares at him long enough, that all Ashton says is, "Okay."

Another non surprise is that Luke wakes up about a half an hour later and the first thing out if his mouth is "Where's Michael?" The nurses need to check his vitals, though, and deny his requests a little bit too long.

They can hear Luke screaming from all the way down the hall. Everyone else in the waiting room tsks and shifts uncomfortably, while Calum and Ashton look vaguely horrified and appalled. Like they're forever going to be connected to Luke, whose screaming down the hall and demanding they let him see Michael.

Michael grins. Everyone stares at him. He grins at them.

"I'm going to go kiss that boy until he stops yelling," he says proudly.

Ashton looks mortified. Calum pats his shoulder and says, "Good for you," again.

A frazzled nurse comes out and glances around quickly, saying, "Michael? Is there a Michael here?"

Everyone, including the nurse, sighs in relief when he stands up and follows her back, down the hall. He passes the room he got his forehead stitched up in, remembers Luke squeezing his hand so hard he thought it was going to fall off. Luke was more afraid of the five stitches marked off on his skin than he was.

Luke has seventeen stitches on his cheek, he's told. He sees them when he steps into the room.

Luke's quiff had been messed up sometime on the ride to the hospital. Parts of it are still sticking up, but its flat and falling against his forehead in clumps, for the most part. His eyes are wide, nearly white or light gray with fright, and his eyebrows are halfway up his creased forehead.

The white blankets are tugged up to his chest, tucking under his sides and armpits like a dress, and he's not wearing a shirt anymore. There's a pile of blood stained white fabric on the floor next to the bed that might be the shirt.

Luke's check is sewn together, like the nurses had warned him, with seventeen stitches. They're bumpy and crooked, a few rushed and sideways, but he doesn't even care. Luke looks like the joker, with the side of his face sewn up. It's not in a smile, though, more like a thick line stretching from his left cheekbone, down to the middle of his jaw. He winces involuntarily at the pain that he didn't even have to watch, let alone go through.

"I'm sorry I couldn't hold your hand like you held mine that time," Is the first thing out of his mouth.

Luke smiles lazily, stitches shifting and twisting in his skin as the muscles of his cheek and jaw stretch. His entire face shifts in half a second, eyebrows falling back down to normal height. He must have blinked, because his eyes are tilted up now, not quite as wide, and bright blue. Radiant and glittering, blue. "S'alright," Luke slurs. "I was out, anyway."

"I still wanted to hold your hand in case you needed something to hold onto in your sleep,"

"I always need something to hold when I sleep," Luke closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the pillow again, stretching so that the long column of his neck is exposing every bump and crevice of it. (Michael remembers biting it, kissing it, grabbing it tightly.) Neither of them mention what Luke's usually holding (Michael).

"I'm in love with you," he blurts out. His chest feels like its caving in suddenly, like a hole is carving itself out right in the middle of his ribs. He can't breathe, let's out a soft puff of the last bit of air in his lungs and gasps in an attept to fill more in.

Luke just smiles lazily, though, nodding and humming. He opens his eyes and looks at him happily. "I love you, too."

"No, Luke," he frowns, gasps in another deep breath so he can throw up some words. "I mean I want to kiss all over your stupid face and maybe everywhere else, too. And I want to wake up kissing you and fall asleep kissing you. And I kind of want to suck your dick, but that's not the point." He makes a kissy face to punctuate his point. Luke giggles. He can breathe again.

"I didn't stutter, did I?" Luke asks. He shakes his head like the question wasn't rhetorical. "Michael, come let me kiss your stupid face."

Michael pauses and considers it carefully, smile threatening to spread across his lips. "My stupid lips too, right?"

Luke grins and nods, so he hurries over to the hospital bed. He trips over Luke's bloody jacket and shirt of the way there. Luke's just staring at him, meanwhile, eyes wide and bright. Like the colored autumn leaves contrasting with the bright blue graduant of a cold day. Luke grins and the stitches move with his cheek.

"I can't kiss you while I can see those things," he says once he gets to the edge of the bed, gripping the arm rest tightly with white fingers and knuckles and palms. Luke sticks out his bottom lip in a pout. "They're gross, Lukey!"

Luke giggles, but he can't tell if it's because of the nickname or the lack of consideration for his near fatal wound. "If you want me, you want all of me. Stitches and all." Luke grins again. They both try not to think about the huge scar that's going to be left in place of the crooked stitches.

Michael considers going to tell the doctor to just glue Luke's cheek together, or something. Anything that'll keep the gash from scarring nastily. Luke will never get a better job if he has half a joker's face.

"I want all of you," he smiles and Luke blushes all the way from his ears to his chest. "I just maybe don't want to touch all of you just yet." He gestures towards the stitches, which have blood clinging to them and ripped up skin faltering around them.

"Michael," He whines. And yeah, alright, that's really all it takes. Just desperate Luke and needy Luke and Luke wanting him.

(He hears Calum making a whipping noise in the back of his head and reminds himself how much he fucking hates Calum.)

He surges forward and presses his lips to Luke's firmly. Their eyes are both closed this time, unlike their first kiss, and his hand is on Luke's clean, flat cheek. His fingers scratch into the back of Luke's head and rub through his hair carefully while Luke just hums into the kiss. For the first time, they're both moving their lips.

He pulls away a little finally, just enough to touch the tip of his nose to Luke's. His one hand is still gripping the arm rest, with the other rubbing against Luke's soft cheek, ignoring the peach fuzz that's grown in since his last shave on Thursday. He's leaning over so far, the bar of the arm rest digs into his stomach and rubs, but he can't find it in him to care at all. Luke goes a little cross eyed trying to look at their connected noses.

"I can't believe it took me nearly dying for you to figure out you loved me," Luke grins.

Michael sort of hates the way that Luke had said "figure out you loved me" and not something like "fall in love with me". Because Luke knows him. Luke knows him well enough to know that'd he'd always been in love. He never fell in love with Luke, he just was. Maybe it was the day on the playground with flowers in both their hair and noses scrunched up with giggles. Or maybe it was never, and he just sprung from the womb, completely tiny head over tiny heels in love with Luke.

"I-" he wants to defend himself, but Luke's right. As always. "Yeah."

Luke smiles and kisses him again.

♪♪♪♪

Luke gets discharged from the hospital a day later and they go straight to Zayn's office. It's a Sunday, so Calum isn't working, and Luke takes it upon himself to stick sticky notes on everything on Calum's desk.

"Luke's busy," he tells Zayn when he gets in the office. "He should be in-" there's a thud from outside, followed by a low screech from Luke. "-ignore that."

Zayn smirks from behind his desk and shoves his hair off his face a little. "Any particular reason you're both here and destroying my office building?"

"Ah, yes, I wanted to thank you?" he shrugs a little and looks down at his feet, shuffling them on the carpet slowly. "For, you know. Taking care of Luke. You didn't have to do that."

Zayn just shrugs. His smirk has turned into a soft smile and he looks stupidly fond. Even as Luke makes another banging noise from outside and yells "sorry!". Zayn just smiles even wider. "I know I didn't have to. It was the right thing to do and I wanted to."

Okay, maybe he doesn't hate Zayn. "We can pay you back for the hospital bills," he lies. "We can- I'll work overtime. Or I can- well, Luke can- get you free coffee. For life. Or-"

"Michael, stop trying to pay everyone back in coffee," Luke pokes his head in, pink sticky note stuck to his cheek to cover up the stitches, and grins. He remembers Rian carting off their coffee machine at his request.

"Coffee is all I have," Michael shrugs. He still doesn't even like coffee.

Luke looks horribly offended, like Michael's just insulted his grandmother's cat. "You have me!" He yells.

Michael turns back to face Zayn and gestures to Luke. "You can have him, if you want." Luke trips over himself to get to Michael, clinging to his arm tightly to kiss his cheek and chin and nose. The pads if his fingers are pressing into his skin and Luke's knuckles are going white.

"He's obedient and lovable, see?" Michael wraps his arm around Luke's waist and squeezes his hip. Luke kisses the skin just under his jawbone.

"I think I'll pass, but thanks," Zayn hums.

Michael smiles and Luke kisses down the side of his face.

♪♪♪♪

He likes the way Luke has sex. He likes that Luke likes to be held down and kissed and loved. He likes the way Luke arches off the bed and squeezes his eyes shut and yells.

He likes the way Luke says his name when he comes. Low and needy and whiney, voice wrecked and lips pink.

He likes the way Luke's entire body flushes a deep pink, from his ears to his chest to his thighs. Blotchy pink like an uneven sunburn all over his body.

He likes the way Luke yells and screams and whines loudly. He likes that Luke begs on his hands and knees and groans when it takes too long to get what he wants.

He doesn't particularly like the three noise complaints they got the first time, or the way Gerard had to come ask them to "be a little quieter during their personal time". He likes Luke's giggle and smile and soft, "challenge accepted," as soon as Gerard left.

He likes the way he leans over Luke and shoves his fingers into Luke's mouth to keep him quiet. Luke sucks on his fingers and bites down on them, arching back and letting out muffled, pornographic noises.

He likes the way he pulls his fingers out of Luke's mouth to see what he's trying to say, only to hear a long string of his name on repeat falling from Luke's lips like a prayer. Just an entire speech of nothing but "MichaelMichaelMichaelMichael, fuck".

His favorite thing to do, is hold Luke's hands above his head and kiss across his throat, grinding down onto him slowly, until Luke's begging and on the verge of tears. "Mikey, please!"

It should be dirty and x rated, but it's not. It's beautiful and perfect and he kind of never wants it to end. He wants to stay in bed all day and watch Luke squirm and wiggle beneath him.

He likes so many things about Luke and about the way Luke has sex, it's only logical for him to wrap his arms around Luke's waist and hold him close while they both come off of their highs. He likes how Luke fits against his body so snugly.

"I love you," he says while kissing Luke nose and cheeks innocently, then his lips as softly as he possibly can.

Most of all, he likes that Luke always says it back. "I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> this ended really bad i'm sorry


End file.
